Pater Noster
by RobinRocks
Summary: UKUS/USUK. "Will it keep away the ghosts?" America asked, his hands tightening around the wooden cross. "And the demons and the monsters?" Threeshot.
1. I: E Nomine Patris

So this time a year ago I hadn't even heard of _Hetalia: Axis Powers_ but, you know, I figured I'd jump on the bandwagon as far as today goes – today, of course, being 4th July/Independence Day in the United States of America, the one damn US holiday I missed despite having been in the USA for a whole academic year and, according to _Hetalia_ canon/fanon/whatever, the official/unofficial/whatever birthday of the series' personification of the USA, Alfred F. Jones.

What I'm saying is that I am well aware that the _Hetalia_ section today is probably swimming with fics posted because of 4th July, for 4th July, about America/his birthday party/how much England bitched about the whole thing as he steadily got more and more drunk before they went upstairs and had explosive sex which almost got derailed because they had an argument halfway up the staircase.

(FYI, I'm British and, as a British person, can vouch for the fact that, contrary to popular belief, we totally got over the whole independence thing. Mostly. At least enough to start selling you Twinings Tea for an unfair price all over again.)

Anyway, I kind of jumped on the bandwagon, at least – because this is a _Hetalia_ fanfic posted on 4th July and it is, more or less, about America.

However, two non-bandwagon things to take into account:

One: I _always_ post something on 4th July. I am still not sure _why_, exactly, but I do. O.o

Two: This isn't about America's birthday. It is, in fact, TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE for Independence Day. XD

Finally, a warning: I never warn for fanfics, generally preferring to just spring horrible surprises (likempreglol) on people, but this time I'm going to because I am well aware that one of the things in this fic might well be regarded as a kink and, therefore, not everyone's preference, and I don't want to squick anyone by just throwing it in their face, soooooooooo...

SHOTA. YEAH. IT'S IN HERE. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. (It's consensual but only because America is fucked up in the head.)

Oh, and this is a two-shot, mostly because it's so monstrously long.

Pater Noster

**[Patriarch. Patronise. Patricide. Patriotism.]**

'To retrieve their manhood from its British guardians, the Sons of Liberty carried out a symbolic patricide. "Having left the British parent as a child, America miraculously becomes capable of its own nurturing; independence transforms the son into his own parent, a child into an adult"...'

- Michael S. Kimmel, _Manhood in America: A Cultural History_

I – E Nomine Patris

"Hey," America whispered (but whispered because he was half-breathless, not because he cared about where they were), "hey, you want... you want me to call you Daddy?"

"Absolutely not." England's tone was absent, dismissive. He tugged insistently at America's flight jacket. "For god's sake, take this blasted thing off, boy! It belongs in a bloody museum!"

America laughed, moving with the motion of it, giggle-shrugging out of the leather jacket.

"That's rude, coming from you," he said mildly. "Your whole house is a fucking museum, right? Everything in it must be like an antique or something – including _you_, hahaha." He spoke his laugh, not a true one, more like sarcasm, but he was grinning even so, eyes bright behind his glasses even though it was dark in here; shifting back against the door of the closet, bracing himself against it as the old jacket, cracked in the usual creases, pooled in a crumpled semi-circle behind his feet.

"You are severely trying my patience, Alfred."

"Tch, you always say that." America rolled his eyes up towards the plain ceiling of the narrow closet – barely wider than a damned _coffin_, come to think of it – and rocked back and forwards, against the door and against England, as his tie was unknotted and his shirt halfway undone.

"I always _mean_ it." England left the shirt and went to America's belt, unbuckling it without having to look.

"Ah, you'd get bored of me if I didn't," America replied confidently. "For sure."

"Full of yourself, aren't you?" England popped his buttons for him, the zip coming down easily once they were loose.

"You make it so easy for me," America said helpfully, cheerfully, leaning forward and kissing him; grinding himself appreciatively into England's palm when it slipped inside the open 'v' of his suit trousers and those fingers, thin and firm (but gentle, gentle like they'd always been), moulded easily around the shape of him through his shorts.

"And besides," he went on, breath catching again as he leaned away from the kiss, back arching against the closet door, "you... _ah_, I-I mean... don't _say_ things like that when we're... 'cause, you know, it j-just... it just makes me want to say... to s-say—"

"You'll be full of me."

"Ha, fuckin' mindreader..."

"No, you're just predictable."

"Nah, that's not... ah, _fuck_...!" America shuddered under his touch and England smirked, bending his wrist for better purchase.

"Language," he tutted.

"Yes, _Daddy_."

England _grabbed_ him and America positively thrashed.

"I told you not to call me that."

"Yeah, _now_. You liked... liked it last time...!" America attempted to kick him and missed, almost losing his balance.

"I most certainly did not." But England relented his grip, his punishment, and America slumped against the door – hissing, cursing, but not mouthing off.

"You were saying?" England prompted in a sick-sweet, gentle tone, removing his hand from America's underwear altogether.

"I... I was..." America gasped in recovery, shoulders heaving. "_Jesus_, you're brutal..."

"Well, you need to learn, don't you?"

"Mm." America, not a _fast_ learner, merely seized this new opportunity to wind him up, smirking. "Oh, I've been a bad boy – I need to be punished, right? Teach me a lesson, Daddy."

"_America_! You behave yourself, young man, or I'll—"

"What will you do? Spank me?" America grinned at him, observing the look on his face. "Aww, don't get all embarrassed, Arthur. Your secrets are safe with me."

"Oh, I shan't spank you," England sighed. "I shall merely injure you to such an extent that you won't _want_ me touching you for at least three months."

America was quiet for a moment, then gave a light, odd little giggle.

"Touché," he said, and he settled.

England hummed contently in response. His hands, his voice, his demeanour, all were calm once more, kind, almost tender, but America knew. He remembered. England was tiny (much smaller than America now that America was fully grown) but he was damned vicious when it pleased him to be so.

(He had once been much wilder. America didn't think he had ever seen it, not really, but he could read the looks on France and Spain's faces. They didn't envy him in the slightest – even if France had once insinuated, years ago, that it had been England's taking care of America than had begun to calm him down.

"Believe what you will of him," France had muttered as he and America had carried drunk, passed-out England back to the barracks between them, "and depending on your thoughts, I might be inclined to agree, but he liked looking after you. You created something in him. I had never seen him that way before."

"I don't think you'll ever see him that way again," America had replied ruefully, eying the galaxy of bruises on England's pale face courtesy of Germany after the former had almost murdered Italy on the North African front and the latter had found out about it.)

"Come on, brat, we don't have all day," England snapped. He was finally working on his own belt, shrugging off his navy blazer as he did so. "Actually, I think we have about ten minutes until everyone gets back from lunch."

"Yeah... yeah, okay..." America never had finished what he'd been meaning to say – that it wasn't that he was _predictable_, it was probably just that he'd made such an awesome joke before and England had been so impressed by it that he'd remembered – but it didn't seem to matter anymore, not when he was matching England blow for blow in the taking-off-restrictive-lower-half-clothing area.

Ten minutes. That was disappointing. Time enough, but disappointing. England had practically _promised_ him a blowjob earlier whilst they'd eaten their own lunch at record speed in a distant corner of the cafeteria (even if he hadn't exactly _said_ it in so many words because it had been damned _obvious_ that France and Prussia, who hadn't even been _invited_ since he wasn't even a proper nation anymore, were trying to listen to their conversation and hadn't let America even touch him as they'd walked out as inconspicuously as possible because, really, it had _been_ totally conspicuous and at least half of the other nations had glanced slyly, knowingly, at them on their way out – France, Japan, Hungary, Poland, Italy, Greece, Prussia, Spain, Romano, China and, in a way that was oddly disconcerting, Germany) and now he wasn't going to get it. England was obsessed with that being-on-time crap and all, which meant they had ten minutes to do it and get the hell out of the closet before everyone came back, _not_ ten minutes to spend.

Sure enough, England's mouth went no lower than America's throat, tongue tracing the hollow of it, lapping the sweat that pooled in the juts of smooth, thin bone, tasting the landscape of him as America thrust helplessly against the thigh pressed firmly up between his legs.

"Don't tease, don't fucking _tease_," he groaned. "If we're so pressed for t-time... then get on... get on with it!"

"Ah, I do enjoy it when you're like this," England replied, laughing as he pulled back, his knee sliding down the inside of America's thigh as it dropped. He smiled, the expression somewhat fond, and ran his palm over America's cheek, thumb arching beneath his right eye. "Open your legs up, then, and we'll get you sorted."

He was all hands then, sliding over America, under him, _in_ him, wrist flush against the underside of his cock; his other hand coming up again, plucking loose the remaining buttons on the shirt and laying it open, damp, against America's heaving chest.

The chain tarnished, old but strong, the wooden cross – hand-carved a very long time ago – still hung about America's neck, clinging comfortably to his sweaty chest halfway down his breastbone.

England changed the angle of his hand and his fingers went deeper and America made a noise that wasn't remotely stifled, his back banging against the closet door and making it rattle.

He cursed as England closed his hand around the cross.

"M-more... fuck, _more_, _deeper_...!" He twisted and his elbow slammed against the door again as he moaned. "Oh _God_..."

"Invoking God on only my fingers." England kissed the cross and then America's throat, making him throw his head back against the door with another loud _thud_. "Listen to you, my boy, getting all undone already."

"Ah... arrogant fucker... _oh_—!"

"That's rude, coming from you," England laughed, slipping his fingers out again. "We've already done that joke, haven't we? The you-being-damned-full-of-yourself one?" He tugged the chain, older than America, against the back of his neck. "Well, let's not dawdle. Put your hands on my waist – I can't hold you up, you know."

"That's 'cause... you're... you're too small."

"More like _you're_ much too heavy."

America opened his eyes behind his fogged glasses and grinned sloppily.

"T-that again?" he panted.

"And again," England replied politely, taking hold of America's hips and angling him forwards, "and again, until you lay off the burgers."

"Not h-happening, Scrooge."

"A literature reference entirely inappropriate to both the situation and my current behaviour, but I'll take it." England pushed inside him quickly, sharply, completing their union in one single practiced motion. "There now. Don't resist, Alfred – _relax_."

"I know, I know, _Jesus_...!" America huffed irritably, bracing his back against the door properly as he struggled to settle around the stretch. "I'm... I'm good. Go already."

"Naïve little fool," England replied gently as he started to fuck him, slamming him back against the closet door with every thrust. His shorter height actually made this angle very easy for him; he could penetrate deeply and strike America's prostate with every stroke.

If he wanted to.

It was loud and it was obvious. America never made any effort to be quiet no matter where they were, almost as though he was doing it on purpose, shrieking and shouting at the top of his voice like it was all a game to see who'd come banging on the door first to tell them to keep it the hell down. He _did_ so love being the centre of attention, after all, if not yelling about how he was going to save the world with jetpacks then instead yelling about what a damn good time he was having with England in a closet down the hallway from the meeting room. Incidentally, England wasn't crashing him against the unlocked door anywhere near as hard as America was still managing to bang against it, driving his own hips back with England's, yielding to it completely and yet not, something else, something else—

"_Fuck_... Arthur...!" His throat jerked as he swallowed and his glasses slipped and England held the cross tighter, wood smooth and sticky against his palm. "Ah, Christ... it's good, it's amazing... _ah_..."

"Amazing?" England whispered in his ear, smile mimicking the shape of it.

America nodded. He was laughing, laughing and breathless with his hands welded to England's waist, fingers twisted in his shirt, laughing so hard and so breathless that he was crying.

"That's my boy," England went on softly, kissing him on the cheek and licking away some of the salt. His hand went to the small of America's back and pushed down on him, forcing more of an arch as his hips suddenly sank lower. America screamed – nothing more than that, no coherent words, and fuck if he wasn't doing it on purpose.

He laughed then, pulling England closer, hands all over him, going up under his shirt and over his spine and shoulder-blades as the rhythm heightened, faster and closer and _louder_.

"Ah—oh, God, England... Arthur, _Arthur_—! Fuck, fuck, yes, there, _there_...! Yeah, harder, yesyesyes—!"

And then, breathlessly, quieter and against England's mouth—

"Daddy, is... is it good?" He almost sounded shy.

"Don't... don't fucking... _call_ me that...!"

"Ha? It's just... just a pet name, babe—"

"E-even so, you're getting much too—too old for it... A-and anyway, calling me "Daddy" one minute and... and "babe" the next—"

America laughed again, feeling that the wooden cross about his neck was still tight in England's fist, and caught up his mouth in a deep, brilliant kiss—

There was a sudden pounding on the door and they froze.

"You two!" Germany bellowed, sounding very much like he had run out of patience. "We thought it best to restart the meeting in your absence but we can hear you in the conference room!" Scratch that – Germany sounded absolutely _furious_. "If you cannot bring yourselves to take this opportunity to discuss world affairs seriously, then at least have the decency to take your preferred occupation elsewhere!"

"Or at least gag your boytoy before you fuck him senseless in a closet, Vereinigtes Königreich!" Prussia crowed. "Mein gott, _someone_ needs to gag that blonde moron – who better than his sugar-daddy?"

There was a muttering of German beyond the door and England felt America snickering quietly against him.

"Well, I can't help it if you're _all_ blonde!" Prussia sang, his voice becoming more distant as he presumably strutted off again, satisfied with his input.

Germany, who had remained, seemed to realise he wasn't going to get a verbal answer from them and banged the door one more time threateningly.

"If I hear one more _sound_ out of either of you, I'll break down the door and drag you out," he growled, and he audibly stomped away muttering something about "that damned Special Relationship, think it gives you the right...".

"And you weren't even making any noise," America pointed out, grinding down against England with a much quieter sigh.

"You make more than enough noise for the both of us," England countered. Their rhythm was calm now, paced and even. "Still, I _am_ glad that you've decided to not test Germany's patience."

"Well, he _did_ sound pretty pissed." America pushed up his glasses with the curve of his wrist. "Ha, bet he's just jealous. Bet listening to us makes him all hot under the collar every time he looks sideways at Italy, right?"

"Don't make assumptions, Alfred."

"That's not an assumption – it's the worst-kept secret _ever_."

"Only because Italy has an even louder voice than you do."

"And because Germany is as awful at denying it as _you_ are. Besides, people make assumptions about _us_ all the time."

"The fact that you scream the place down means it's not an assumption, you silly boy."

(Although England _did_ often wish he had more of a right to make a rude snap-back at whoever had the gall to nudge him and make some kind of crack about Big Macs or Happy Meals – America grinning proudly at his side always made it look so hypocritical.)

"Love you," America whispered. He took England's elbows and pulled him close, kissing his forehead. "Love you, Daddy. Like hell. More than anything."

"I don't like it when you call me that," England said softly, pressing America to his shoulder, one hand stroking the nape of his neck, the other around the cross, thumb relearning the clever cuts and carvings he had made centuries ago.

America's fingers – longer, broader, bigger – found England's pulse, thrumming pale and steady like a new-birthed butterfly beneath his skin.

"Liar," he said, and he smiled.

* * *

It wasn't altogether that late – for England had seen the fatigue in America's expression and body-language and consequently made their excuses, leaving the party somewhat early – but the winter nights were dark and even the twitching back of the carriage curtain every now and then offered no indication as to where they were, every stretch of lonely, pitch-black country road looking the same. A silver skin of frost coated every brittle branch and every dip and mound in the uneven earthen road, the moon like a circle of ice in the clear cold sky.

America was asleep, curled against England's side with his head on his chest, making a pillow of the layers of lacy frills on England's cravat. England had already draped his heavy travelling cloak over the child to keep off the chill of the carriage – they were never warm, these wheeled wooden boxes...

America slept the whole way home, not disturbed by the bumps and swerves of the cab on the hard road, and only woke – partially – when England lifted him out, still wrapped in the cloak, and carried him to the house. The night air rinsed him of his drowsiness, for he was squirming restlessly in England's arms by the time they were in the entrance hall.

"Alfred, pray hold still lest I drop you," England muttered, still holding him with one arm as he took off his hat to hang it in the hall. "You are truly getting rather too big for me to carry you."

America giggled and threw his arms around England's neck, nuzzling him affectionately as if to insinuate that England wouldn't _dream_ of dropping him. He _was_ getting too big, though. He was chest-level with England now, at least when he stood up straight, and he was a lot heavier than he had once been. Despite his customary wriggling-about, however, he _did_ like to be picked up and held and cuddled, almost _obsessed_ with acquiring England's attention, clambering into his arms or lap or bed when he felt that he wasn't getting enough of it.

Still, England supposed that _he_ was to blame for that. _He_ had bred it in America, after all. If he lavished America with attention, then it was only natural that the child would come to expect the spotlight as the norm. He could only hope that it was a demanding habit that the boy would eventually grow out of – if not, then he could not be angry. He was to blame.

(Yes, he had only himself to blame for this.)

America clung more tightly as they ascended the staircase and passed his own room; he muttered something about monsters but they were all contrived excuses by now, these monsters and ghosts and ghouls of his, maybe the nightmares were real but the monsters weren't, they were never more than anything but passwords to get into England's bed.

"But are you not tired, Alfred?" England pressed. "You slept well enough on the way home. Why, we even left the festivities early so that you might sleep."

"Tired, but not too tired," America insisted. He pushed up in England's arms to kiss him on the cheek. "Truly not too tired, Daddy."

(_Not too tired? If you insist, then_.)

America was beginning to become manipulative. England saw it a mile off – probably because he was manipulative himself and therefore most likely the source of America's learning – and still wasn't entirely sure if he found it endearing or worrying. There was not so much innocence in those huge blue eyes anymore, nor so much within the soft curve of his childish smile. He was intelligent for his age; oh, naïve, certainly – he was the equivalent of perhaps a twelve year old – but clever, curious, confident.

Of course, America could not manipulate _him_. Ah, but it was enjoyable to let him _think_ that he was able to, at least – that England was bending to _his_ will and not the other way around when he supposedly got his own way.

(And didn't it deplete the guilt? It was alright it if it was what America wanted; if America didn't cry.)

He laid the boy down on the bedsheets of the four-poster, his small form still half-wrapped in the travelling cloak, the voluminous material fanning beneath him like the broad wings of a bat.

America lay on his back, wriggled to get more comfortable – the plain white sheets creasing with his movement – and turned his head to watch England, his cheek flat on the mattress. He smiled.

He had a beautiful smile. Even if it grew wicked at times – and it did – it still rivalled the gentle breathless breezes and cool easy violets and high open graces of the prairies and valleys and lakes of his land.

His smile and those eyes of his, big and blue and as empty as the sky – empty but not truly empty, the sky only seemed that way because it was limitless and with space enough for dreams and flying machines. The glow of the candle that England had lit fell on him now, glossing the blue over, the glaze on his gaze making it look vacant when that wasn't true at all, the boy was watching England very intently indeed, waiting for an invitation of some sort.

It drove England mad. He didn't want America to change, to ever change – and yet he knew that he would. There was no way to bottle his boyhood, to arrest his adolescence. The child grew quickly – too quickly, much faster than any other nation England had ever seen, himself included, the pace almost freakish – and soon he wouldn't _be_ a child anymore. America had an adept ability to take things from other nations and stitch them into himself – culture, language, technology. That was why he grew so fast. England was aware of it and had tried to keep America away from everyone but himself so that they wouldn't warp him already more than they already had. France, Spain, Portugal, Holland... Their influences weren't needed and most certainly weren't wanted.

All America needed in this world was England.

(And as for _wanted_—)

Unbuttoning his waistcoat very carefully, cravat loose like a stole about his shoulders, England sat down on the edge of the bed; the boy came to him immediately, almost like a magnet, and was in his lap before England could do much about it.

America was not afraid of him. His eyes were _not_ empty, in fact – rather, they were filled with blind trust, with complete and utter adoration. Nothing England did ever made him flinch away; England had gently trained him not to, soothing him when he trembled, reassuring him when he was uncertain. He had never hurt him on purpose, never terrified him as he had terrified others, never raised his hand to him (even when he had debatably deserved it).

Surely, _surely_, it was much too kind, much too loving, to be abuse.

America's kisses were hardly masterful but they were firm and enthusiastic, his small hands on England's shoulders to give him an anchor as he tilted his head up. He was straddling England's thighs, his legs dangling, not tall enough for them to quite reach the floor yet.

Young. He was still so young. England did not love him purely for that fact, but it could not be denied that it was his youth that gave him that wide-eyed idealistic wonder, his youth that made him a blank slate, his youth that made him a perfect vessel to hold what England feared – with the way nations and empires rose and fell with the ease of the tide – he might be one day unable to keep for himself.

"I love you," England told him, wrapping his arms around him, holding him as tightly as he could without hurting him. "America. Alfred. Do you understand?"

America buried his face in the frothy layers of England's open cravat and nodded. He liked to play at this being-shy thing sometimes even though he was anything but.

"Pray put a stop to this game of yours, else I shall think that you do not love me in return." England shook him a little bit as he felt him giggling.

"Arthur is silly, then," America replied with conviction, his voice muffled into the cravat.

"I beg your pardon, Alfred?" England took hold of the boy's shoulders and pushed him back away from his chest.

If America sensed that England was actually beginning to become a little annoyed with his behaviour, he did not show it, smiling and reaching up to throw his arms around England's neck again.

"I love you too, Arthur!" he proclaimed happily. "Daddy, I love you more than anything! I want to stay with you forever!"

_Of course. Of course you do. You are but a child and I am all that you have ever known. Your teacher, your brother, your best friend, your lover, your father, your entire world._

(Of course, he did not expect America to always feel that way. He knew that inevitably America would grow up and eventually not need him anymore. He hated it, he resented it, he dreaded it, but he knew it would happen. It was simply a question of _when_.)

America rocked contentedly in his arms for a while, lulling himself half-asleep, and England held him close, enjoying the embrace; but eventually he noticed that the action was creasing the nice clothes he'd put the boy in for the party and shifted him out of his lap, rising.

"You are wrinkling your clothing," he said, kneeling at the side of the bed and taking one of America's feet, unlacing his boot. "Come along now, you know you must not play about in such finery. We ought to get you ready for bed, oughtn't we?"

America nodded, probably not because he wanted to go to bed but because he hated being dressed nicely. He liked to play outside and bring all the dirt of the day into the house, so wearing old clothes, either his own or England's, was fine with him. He always whined and fussed when England grabbed him and made him look decent enough to present in public. He particularly hated the high fashion for boys his (physical) age at the moment – half-length trousers and long socks with braces and patent shoes and fussy frock-coats with tails and ruffled cravats and tight-laced waistcoats and starched collars. He was regaled in all of those right now, all silk and velvet and lace, various shades of dark and deep reds, the coat a brilliant crimson because he'd wanted one the same colour as England's military uniform (he had other colours too, entire matching outfits, but earlier England had held up blue in one hand and the red in the other and said "Baby, you must choose" and America had barely hesitated before pointing to the red – perhaps the lesser of two evils if he was not allowed to wear his mud-caked shirt).

America did not often sit still, bursting within energy all too regularly, but he sat now and allowed England to quickly and efficiently undress him, fidgeting with the buttons of the outsized shirt of England's own that he was put in instead as the cuffs slipped over his small hands. He kicked his legs restlessly over the edge of the bed, heels tapping the oak rhythmically, as England neatly folded the clothes and left the room go and put them away.

He was gone a while; America didn't like being by himself for extended periods of time, especially at night, and retreated to the head of the bed, huddling into the pillows and bringing his knees up to his chest. England left him by himself fairly often but he still hadn't gotten used to it. He still hated to see his retreating back.

("Too dependent, my boy," England chided him at times, but he always held him closer and tighter still whenever he did.)

America scrambled towards him eagerly upon his return, arms outstretched as he jumped off the bed.

"Daddy, Daddy!" He threw his arms around England's waist. "What kept you? I was scared by myself."

Scared, perhaps. But _there_ was that manipulative glint in those beautiful blue eyes again. England sighed and disentangled him; there was something gleaming in one of his hands.

"Alfred, your imagination is altogether much too vivid." He picked the child up again and took him back to the bed. "Come now, enough of this tomfoolery."

"What's in your hand?" America queried, distracted already, clawing at England's fist. "What's in your hand, Arthur?"

"A present for you, darling, which you might have only if you are good."

"Ah!" America crossed his legs under himself the moment England put him back down on the bed, smiling sweetly. "I _am_ good!" he insisted.

"And does a good boy bring a live frog into the kitchen, Alfred?"

"I wanted you to see it!" America was starting to whine. He couldn't hold his "good boy" position any longer and knelt up, pawing at England's shirt. "I am good, I am, I am!"

"Very well," England sighed; but he was smiling. "I suppose you have done your utmost to convince me."

America beamed and England opened his hand, the chain threaded across his fingers; the wooden cross tumbled from his fist and swung like a pendulum at his forearm. America watched it in fascination, his mouth slightly open but silent.

"For you, America," England said softly, taking the old chain – old, old but strong, one he'd had from the reign of Henry VIII or thereabouts – in both hands and unclasping it. He slipped it around America's thin neck and hooked it again; it was long on him, the cross sitting in the middle of his ribs. "I carved it for you."

It had taken him three nights. The wood was birch, not the easiest to work with, but he'd happened across a piece of such a nice colour that he'd brushed aside the difficulty he'd known he'd have with it. He'd opted for a plainer shape, that post-Gothic kind with widened triangular points, and the details were sparse but minute and meticulous, a flair of quasi-Celtic-Medieval flourish here and there to bring out the beauty of the wood beneath.

"You wear it well," England went on as both of America's small hands closed around the solid shape of it, fingers tracing over the smooth nicks and notches as though trying to memorise them.

America looked up at him and seemed on the verge of saying something, probably "Thankyou" or "I love you", but instead he hesitated and then—

"Will it keep away the ghosts?" he asked. "And the demons and the monsters?"

England laughed and gathered the boy into his arms.

"Of course, of course," he said; too carelessly, too easily, because that was what America wanted to hear.

(America underneath him and all around him, one hand still tightly clutching the cross as he writhed and squirmed and bit hard at his bottom lip, his other arm flung around England's neck. Those manipulative eyes of his were squeezed shut, tears blooming at them and streaking his flushed cheeks.

"Does it hurt, Alfred?" England kissed his forehead. "Shall I stop?"

America shook his head. He was crying, his chest hitching, but he was insistent.

"N-no... _no_!"

England smiled against the crook of his neck.

"Then tell me you love me."

America opened his eyes.

"Daddy," he said, his voice barely audible over the heaving of his breath, "Daddy, I... I love you.")

—

And later, much later, days and weeks and months later, America came to his bed one night, wide-eyed and trembling but climbing under the sheets with a comfortable, practiced ease.

"Another of your dreadful dreams?" England asked him gently, feeling the boy shifting around under the covers, settling between his legs. "Hm, Alfred?" He lifted the bedclothes to look at him – America met his gaze from beneath the cave of them, his head resting contentedly on England's stomach. "A monster, was it?"

"Not a monster," America informed him sleepily, closing his eyes and getting comfortable. "You."

* * *

Perhaps England should have known better than to believe anything and everything France told him merely for the sake of living a happier life, but for everything else he hated about the snail-sucking bastard, he had to admit that France wasn't really known for lying. He much preferred making people squirm with the truth.

America was babbling happily as he helped him indoors with a stack of boxes. England had been in Europe for three months and America was delighted to see him; of course he hadn't bothered to dress up for the occasion, his shirt muddy and one of his braces fraying at the buckle, but he couldn't stop grinning.

He had grown again. Only an inch or so, but by this point he was already towering over England with all the outgrown awkwardness of a teenager, with large hands and feet and his shirt riding up whenever he stretched. It was odd to see him so tall – he always forgot that he was smaller than him nowadays – and England narrowed his eyes at him briefly.

"You need new clothes, boy," he bit out, interrupting whatever America had been prattling on about.

Derailed, America blinked at him, then glanced down at himself.

"Wh...? Ah, these are fine, really," he said, smiling. "They suit my needs well enough—"

"You need new clothes," England sighed irritably, "_again_." He took one of the boxes back from America, carried it to the kitchen table and unclasped it, going through it until he emerged with a magazine. "Here, these are the current clothing trends in Europe – why not take a look through it until I can take you to have you fitted?"

He held it open to a double-page spread depicting the ruffled, shortened style of waistcoat fashionable amongst the European nations at present – England himself was wearing one given to him by Switzerland in return for six boxes of the new ammunition being used by the English army.

America looked at it blankly, tilted his head, and then squinted at it before taking a step towards England and the magazine.

"Whatever can the matter be, Alfred?" England asked him sharply. "Can you not see it?"

"Oh, I..." America blinked up at him, suddenly appearing startled. "No, no, I am quite alright, really I am."

England glared at him, unconvinced, as he put the magazine aside; he took hold of America's chin and pulled him closer.

"What is wrong with your eyes?" he pressed, his voice hard. "Is this a frequent occurrence?"

"Arthur, do not concern yourself," America replied, pulling his head free again. "Truly I am perfectly well."

England still wasn't convinced, but he was not given the chance to pursue it further as America took his arm and tugged at him.

"Come, come, I cooked!" he said excitedly. "I thought you would be tired when you arrived so I made dinner—"

"Yes, yes, alright," England snapped testily, pulling his arm back. "Do not swing on me like that, Alfred. You are not a child."

America looked hurt, but he obediently dropped his arm and nodded, leading the way to the kitchen in a far more subdued manner. England followed, satisfied in crushing him for now.

They ended up eating in silence. America tried to start several conversations, this one about his horse, this one about the model flying machine he was making, but England didn't offer much response and eventually America, disheartened, fell quiet.

After dinner England went out onto the back veranda to smoke one of the thin little cigars given to him by Austria on his departure from Europe; he enjoyed the hush, watching the sky sink a deeper shade of bejewelled purple minute by minute as the sun set behind the pine trees.

He had missed America; and he had been looking forward to seeing him, however much of a pain in the neck he could be of late as he began to form a mind of his own – but then France, the dirty non-liar, had had to go and ruin it all.

Ignorance was bliss – and truly England would have been happier not knowing. Now he couldn't look at America without imagining what France had done to him that night. He couldn't even bring himself to be nice to him. He was angry and he couldn't deny it. He had thought that America – sweet, cheerful, dependent America – had more loyalty than that.

The door creaked behind him, as did the wooden boards of the veranda, and England sighed inwardly. Here came America, as thoroughly and endearingly unsneaky as always. He turned to him, regarding him boredly, and America actually flinched.

"What can I do for you, boy?" he asked coldly.

"Um..." America glanced about sheepishly, twisting his fingers together nervously. "I was just... I mean, I was..." He took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself. "Arthur—_England_, are you... _angry_ with me?"

England almost laughed at him, but he managed to restrain himself as he turned away again.

"Whatever gives you that impression?" he asked airily.

"W-well..." America stepped closer to him. "You... you have hardly spoken two words to me, it seems that you refuse to make eye-contact with me, you have not even..."

"I have not even _what_?" England mocked. "What do you mean to say, Alfred? I have not even so much as _kissed_ you?"

America flinched again and England knew he'd guessed correctly. He exhaled deeply, breathing out a cloud of smoke. How to breach the subject? Perhaps he should just be blunt and outright tell the boy that he wasn't interested in taking France's used goods.

"Arthur." America was starting to whine. "Please. I missed you."

England scowled. Now _that_ was rich. He'd missed him but apparently France was a good enough substitute.

"_Arthur_," America insisted, trying to put his arms around him.

England violently batted him away.

"How dare you touch me!" he exploded. "You lying little harlot, do not think even for a _moment_ that I can be fooled by your pathetic act! France has told me about the ease with which he enticed you into his arms – and it is true that France is hardly my friend, but rest assured that I have known him long to be able to tell when he is lying."

All of the colour visibly drained out of America's face. France, England concluded grimly, really hadn't been lying; America was looking at him in utter horror and dismay.

"I knew it," England said quietly. "I did not want to believe it, but I knew it to be true." He looked at America in disgust. "So do not come crying to me that I am treating you unfairly when I cannot leave you unattended without you obediently opening your legs for my nemesis." He gave a snort. "I expect that he had just come from doing much the same to Matthew."

"I was lonely," America sniffed. "You always leave me by myself in this big house and go away for months on end and I never know when you are going to return. Sometimes I go weeks without seeing another person, without using my voice—"

"_America_," England said in a warning voice.

"No, no, it just isn't fair!" America wailed. "I hate being by myself and you always leave me! When France came over to see me I had been not in the presence of another for almost three weeks!"

"And it would have been too much to simply enjoy his company in a manner which did not involve you shedding your clothing?" England asked testily.

"It was he who began it," America shot back, "and anyway, you are being hypocritical, I am sure. Do you not have relations with many in Europe? You talk about Austria and Portugal all the time and I know you have slept with France yourself at least once because I _heard_ you—"

"How dare you insinuate such—"

"I know what this is," America went on, clenching his fists. "It is that you insist upon stifling me! Heaven forbid that I might create a relationship between myself and anyone but _you_!"

England dropped his cigar to the wooden floor, stamped it out and walked past America back into the house without another word.

Ignorance truly was bliss. It hurt to know that America was growing up.

He had always dreaded it.

—

America was sitting in silence by the fire; in his lap rested a carefully-constructed model of wood, light and well-braced and with several layers of large, flat wings on either side. He was meticulously applying string across the body from the propellers at the tail, his blonde hair across his forehead as he leaned down very close to the thing to work on it.

England had his legs folded beneath him in the largest armchair, a cup of tea on the table at his side and a heavy book, given to him by Germany, open in front of him; he usually didn't curl up like this in front of America because it made him look smaller, more like the tiny island that America could knock flat if it so pleased him that he really was, but tonight he didn't really care, moodily retreating into himself.

He had addressed America only once – to suggest, somewhat sarcastically, that it appeared to him that America might in fact require spectacles. America had pointedly ignored him, moving the model away from his face even so.

What a nuisance. Of _course_ America would need glasses – something else for him to whine and moan about as England dragged him down to the town to acquire them. America hated shopping trips and made them unpleasant with his stubbornness in refusing to choose colours, offer an opinion on style and stand still whilst being measured and pinned.

Still, perhaps glasses were something that taxes could be imposed upon.

Some time later, America got up, taking his model, and went to the other end of the large drawing room.

"Arthur," he said pointedly, his voice not without a little excitement, "watch this."

England took his time about lifting his head – he did so just in time to see the wooden... _thing_ go careening across the room and slam into a bookshelf holding a leather-bound set of The Complete Works of Shakespeare from 1650. The model crumpled and fell to the floor, soon buried by the volumes all _thudding_ down on top of it as they toppled like dominoes and slid off the shelf.

"My plane!" America wailed, darting to it and beginning to heave the books off.

"My _books_!" England sprang out of his chair and was upon America like a bat out of hell. "Never you mind your confounded model, boy! You pick those books up this _instant_ and put them back exactly as they were!"

"Alright, alright..." America grudgingly shifted his attention to the books, stacking them neatly as he lifted them. "I apologise, I did not mean to knock them over..."

"I should most certainly hope not," England bit out. He bent to retrieve the battered model as _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Timon of Athens_ were removed from its crushed corpse, holding it gingerly by one wing. "Alfred, what _is_ this?"

America blinked at it.

"Oh, I call it an airplane," he explained. "It is primitive at present, but it is a flying machine!" He frowned at it. "It got ruined, but I think I can repair it."

"Indeed," England said, and he tossed the plane into the fire.

"Arthur!" America promptly dropped _King Lear_ and _The Merchant of Venice_ as he watched his model go up in flames. "I worked on that for weeks!"

"Yes, well, the devil makes work for idle hands, does he not?" England replied absently, dusting his hands off and going back to his armchair. "Now put those books back and then get yourself to bed."

America simply _stared_ at him, apparently speechless – which made a change.

"Alfred, do not make me repeat myself," England sighed, settling back into his chair. "Please just go to bed – I am quite weary of you today." He took his book back into his lap – he was notably sitting properly now, his back straight so that he was at his full height. "Oh," he added, "and I mean _your_ bed, of course. Do not come to mine."

America still just stood there; England glanced up at him to check that he was not about to throw one of the Bard's works into the fire in revenge for his silly model and scowled when he saw him unmoving.

"_America_!" he snapped, losing his temper. "Do I have to take my belt to you, boy?" He slammed his book shut decisively and rose again. "For God's sake, leave the books, I shall do it myself." He waved his hand dismissively at America. "Good God, just get out of my sight."

Still America didn't move a muscle, as though debating standing his ground – he was, after all, a lot bigger than England and could probably easily overpower him physically if he tried.

But, after a moment of watching England angrily snatch up the books himself, he fled; England heard the uneven rhythm of him taking the stairs two at a time and then the slam of his bedroom door.

Sulky teenaged brat – England had been out on the high seas robbing Spain when he was his (physical) age...

He looked at the fire and saw the last of America's flying machine crumble to ash beneath the flames; ah, yes, he knew the feeling.

All of his hard work, falling apart before his very eyes.

—

England winched open the door to America's bedroom, holding up his candle as he leaned into the room; America was in bed, his own candle out, his back to the door.

Asleep.

England sighed inwardly. Good. He didn't want to deal with him anymore tonight—

The sheets rustled, there was sudden movement, and then America was sitting up, turning towards England and meeting his gaze. There was a very strange expression on his face – sad, sulky, but still somehow sort of hopeful – and his blue eyes were oddly piercing in the fickle flicker of the candlelight.

He was shirtless and the cross that England had made for him years ago was visible around his neck. He didn't say anything, just gazed at England pathetically, striking _him_ speechless too.

_Not too tired, Daddy._

England shifted his weight onto one leg distractedly as he composed himself.

"We shall go into the town on the morrow," he said stiffly. "Breakfast will be at seven. Please dress yourself as respectably as you are able, what with your clothes as they are. We shall attend to your wardrobe needs and also do what we can about acquiring you a pair of spectacles so that you might see things a little more clearly. Goodnight, Alfred."

He didn't wait for a response, merely giving a curt nod and pulling the door again. He went to his own room down the hall, putting the candle down at the bedside to light his way as he prepared for bed; allowing what was left of it to merely burn itself out, growing dimmer and dimmer, as he nestled beneath the sheets of this bed for the first time in three months and tried to forget about America.

Difficult, when he could not help but recall that America usually slept in this bed with him.

He could not come to the conclusion of how much later it was when the door opened, but here came America, unsneaky as always; by the dimming candlelight, pretending to be asleep, England watched him scamper to the bed and pause at the end of it, uncertain, before clambering aboard. He was under the covers before England could do much about it, settling with a sense of triumph about him at England's back. England couldn't be bothered to turn over and chase him out and so closed his eyes again, thinking it would be easier to just let him stay. He could get angry in the morning when he "found" America in his bed.

Of course, America had to ruin it. He wasn't in the bed two minutes before he was daring to cuddle close and try to put his arms around England from behind.

"Alfred, get out," England snapped, not opening his eyes.

America snatched his hands back as though England had burned him – but he notably didn't move much further than that.

"I mean it," England went on coldly when he felt no response. "If I wanted you in my bed, would I not have extended an invitation?"

"I might have known that you were only pretending to be asleep," America finally muttered.

"Alfred, _out_."

"Oh, Arthur," America wailed suddenly, throwing his full weight across England, "please do not remain angry at me! I am so very sorry, really I am! Please, please forgive me – I cannot bear for you to be so hateful towards me!"

"That is unfortunate, for I am highly displeased with your behaviour. You surely cannot expect me to shed hurt as deep as this so quickly." England finally turned over beneath him, observing America's flushed face and damp eyes; his cross was swinging like a pendulum. "My sweet America betrays me – of course I am sorely injured by this. Do not be so unkind as to beg me for my forgiveness."

"But I _am_ sorry," America insisted. "_Please_, Arthur – I cannot stand this a moment longer! I will never betray you again – I will never hurt you, I swear upon my life." He paused; and then, in a rather small, pitiful voice, added, "Daddy... I love you."

"_Alfred_." England looked away. "You do yourself no justice. Please, away. We shall discuss it on the morrow, but for now, kindly leave me be. I do not wish to share my bed with you tonight."

There was a long, tense moment of silence. England expected to feel the shift of the mattress and the lifting of America's weight as he meekly got off and slipped away; instead, America sat up, but moved no further.

"No," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" England asked dangerously, meeting his gaze again.

America's eyes narrowed.

"I said no," he replied. "I shall not away, I shall not move. I am not a child and I do not, therefore, have to follow your orders."

"How _dare_ you disobey me—" England began furiously, reaching up to shove at America; he cut himself off as both of his wrists were caught easily in America's large hands.

"I am _not_ a _child_," America said again, his emphasis almost desperate. "I do not want our relationship to be a case of you ordering me around and I either doing as I am told or disobeying you; it is obvious to me that we do not love each other the same way and I wish that that was not so. Arthur, I want us to be equal."

"There can be no equality when one half of any given couple cannot be trusted," England spat at him. "How fine it is for you to preach at me for being unfair when you have hurt me so—"

"You do not understand," America interrupted. "You are correct in surmising that the excuse that to have allowed France to have his way with me purely because I was lonely is a poor one – I did not explain myself properly. Perhaps that might be been why I first reacted to his advances, but hear this: He did not make me feel like a child, nor that I was inferior. I felt equal to him – I have never felt that with you. With you, Arthur, I am always aware that you are older, that you are cleverer, that you are more experienced, that you are stronger. When I was younger it did not bother me because I was happy indeed to worship you, but now I want you to see that I am not so young anymore. I want you to love me as I love you. I want _you_ to worship _me_, too."

"How foolish you are, boy," England replied softly. "And how arrogant."

America merely shrugged.

"Perhaps," he agreed calmly. "But I cannot help my desires any more than you can."

England had no response to that. Instead he tested America's grip on his wrists, finding that they were still held securely. He let his head flop back to the pillow with a breathy laugh.

"What now, then?" he asked. "Shall we sit here all night or are you going to rape me, Alfred?"

America paled a shade, but he shook his head firmly.

"I am not going to rape you," he said. "How would that be fair when you have never forced me?"

England laughed again.

"Perhaps not," he sighed. "Perhaps never forced or raped as you imagine the connotations – but adults are persuasive, are we not?" He grinned. "And so, if you are an adult, you will _persuade_ me, surely."

"That—I mean to say—"

"I doubt that you can. I treat you like a child because you _are_ one. What do you know of anything in this vein aside from what I have taught?" England closed his jade eyes again tiredly. "And why should you wish to be like us anyhow? We are awful creatures – liars, war-mongerers, beasts. Do not wish your youth away by insisting that you are an adult, for we will tear you apart soon enough when you are of age as we do to each other."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Is that why you wanted me?" America asked quietly. "All those years ago, you and France fought over me. I admit I have often wondered why you were so desperate for me – why you wanted to devote yourself to a child when you were young yourself."

"Yes. That is why I wanted you – and why I love you. You have not grown into what we are."

"But I _have_ grown," America said, apparently not about to be bought out by sentimental words. "Arthur, am I nothing but a colony – an escape from Europe for you?" He tightened his grip on England's wrists. "My God, do not love me for my youth, because I am unlike Spain and France! Love me for me no matter my age, no matter my height, no matter what I can offer you. Are you so shallow that you will love me no longer when I start in upon my face with a razor each morning?"

"_America_—"

"No, I must have an answer! You call me a child still but you know that that is not so – you know it and do not wish to believe it and now you hate me because I am not as I once was. Would you rather I stayed a child for all eternity? Would you love me undyingly then, Arthur?"

"Alfred, I _do_—" England cut himself off, the realisation of what he was saying – of that America had managed to do – dawning on him. "You manipulative little _wretch_!" he seethed, struggling again against America's grasp. "I am the one gravely hurt by your behaviour and yet you have the gall to entice me to pity you as though _I_ were the one in the wrong!"

"Is it any wonder that I shall seek elsewhere if this is how you treat me?" America exploded frustratedly. "I did not feel like a mere colony in his arms – he did not need to assure himself that he was superior to me with each of his actions. He treated me as if I were his lover, like _any_ lover, woman or man, age of no consequence. I want _you_ to treat me as he did that night."

"He does not love you, Alfred – he merely used you."

"And is that not what _you_ do?" America pressed. "What should it matter when he made me feel as I did? You refuse me now out of stubbornness, because my betrayal has injured your _pride_ more than your feelings, but in three nights I have no doubt that I shall be invited to your bed again, if it even takes that long."

England smirked at him.

"If you are so confident of that," he said lightly, "then why not simply wait out the three nights?"

"'Because I tire of this," America said. He hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Arthur, let me make love to you."

England blinked at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Let me make love to you," America repeated. "I will not rape you, nor persuade you. Perhaps I am not yet adult enough to do either. But I love you and I will do my best to make you understand that, if you will allow me."

"I will do no such thing!" England snapped. "Now see here, young man—"

"Are you afraid?" America asked, pushing his wrists to the mattress.

"Of course I am not afraid, I merely cannot allow such a preposterous—"

"Then allow me to try."

"Do not be so ridiculous, as if you would any idea as to what—"

"Let me _try_."

England was silent for a very long moment. At length he smirked again, settling better into the mattress.

"Very well," he said graciously. "Do what you will. I warn you that this will be nothing but you making a spectacle of yourself, you silly boy. You are not ready."

America merely gave a nod and bent, leaning forward to kiss England on the mouth. England contemplated pulling away to be spiteful but he stopped moving altogether as he felt the cold wood of the cross and the chill coil of the chain settle against his own chest through his nightshirt as America pressed down close to him.

He remembered sitting by candlelight for three nights, bent low over it with a knife. His spine had ached and his fingers had bled and his eyes had been sore but he'd smiled as he'd held it in his hand, finished, on the final night and admired it. He had, by his own words and behaviour, been mindful of steering America towards God, but the carving had not been made to be held in prayer; leave the Catholics, France and Spain and Italy and Portugal, with blind fingers on their rosaries, for that had not been his design for America. The cross had not been meant as an article of prayer, but merely a gift – a sign of goodwill, meant to protect.

America always wore it.

America at last lowered his hands from England's wrists, guiding them sightlessly to his waist; still kissing him, he plucked at his nightshirt, coaxed his legs open, and then England felt the warm bulge of America's crotch press against his own—

He pushed America off, holding him at arm's length.

"I cannot," he said breathlessly. "I cannot allow this."

America looked at him in exasperation.

"Arthur—"

"I do not expect you to understand."

"Oh, I assure you that I understand," America said coldly.

"No, you do not." England rubbed at America's shoulders. "Listen, I shall forgive you; and I love you, Alfred, never doubt that – but pursue this no further, I beg of you."

America scowled at him.

"You are afraid."

"Yes, I am afraid," England agreed distractedly.

He wrapped his arms around America and pulled him down close again, embracing him and putting a hand to the back of his head to stroke his hair. America yielded to him, silent for a long moment.

"Then you make love to me," he mumbled finally into England's shoulder.

"No, not tonight, my boy," England replied gently. "This is enough. Hush now."

America squirmed unhappily for a moment but then fell still, apparently deciding not to argue any further; soon England felt his breathing slow and even out. It never took him long to fall asleep. He curled into England's embrace and slept against him contentedly, clutching at him as he had done when he was a little boy even though he was taller than England now, much taller, grown out of all his clothes but not his cross.

England held him close because he was afraid.

It was he who was not ready to have America make love to him.

* * *

"This is what we have wrought."

England ought to have known better than to go off by himself to survey the battlefield; at the sound of America's voice, he whipped around – but his musket was propped up against a tree over three feet away.

_America's_ musket was pointed right at him, bayonet gleaming in the orange light of the dusk. In this glow America's blue coat looked purple – England's own looked a much deeper crimson than it really was, as demanding as an open wound.

"Yes, it is," England agreed, turning his back on the battlefield as he faced America fully. He looked pointedly at the musket. "Have you come to kill me?"

"I should." America raised the gun a little. "It would put an end to all of this, would it not?"

"All of this?" England repeated mockingly. "You mean 'war', of course?" He laughed. "A pity that you are not man enough to call it by its true name."

America's eyes darkened.

"You are in no position to speak to me like that, Arthur," he said warningly.

"Oh, I am merely trying to understand," England replied airily. "It is all too easy to declare war, of course – all it takes is a few words. Of that I know you are aware, since those few words falling from your lips are why we are here, after all." He shook his head. "This is what we have wrought? Of course that is true –but I feel that you project the blame fairly because of guilt on your own part."

"I did not want it to be like this," America said stiffly. "If only you had—"

"Ah, of course, and now it is solely _my_ fault," England cut in sweepingly; he gestured behind him to the fading field littered with corpses dressed in blue and red. "Men, young men, good men – sons, brothers, _fathers_, all sent out to die by my will alone."

America's aim faltered but he gripped more tightly at the musket.

"Stop it," he said. "Stop it, Arthur."

"If you are man enough to command an army then you are most certainly man enough to accept responsibility for your losses. Accept that it is because of you that a child will never be tucked in at night by his father again – that instead of reading his daughter a Bible passage by the fire, a nameless man in a blue coat lies face-down in the mud with his cold hand still around his musket—"

"_Stop it_!" America threw down his own gun.

"What did you think this was?" England challenged him. "Of course your armies are expendable, of course you will lose men, you naïve little—"

America breached the gap between them in less than three paces and slammed England against the tree in another two.

"Is this what you meant back then?" he asked savagely. "Is this what you did not want me to grow into?"

England looked at him – muddy, bloody, wearing an army uniform of his own design, blue instead of the red he had once chosen over it. He wasn't wearing his glasses even though he needed them. He had always been stubborn about them, apparently neglecting them altogether once out of England's influence.

"Yes," England replied. "This is exactly what I dreaded. Look at you – you are just like me."

America shot him a sudden sickly smile.

"Of course I am, Daddy," he said softly.

(Was it rape if he more or less _let_ America do it?

America was bigger than him. It had never been more obvious – his wrists were held with one hand as America unfastened and undressed both of their lower halves with his free one. England didn't struggle, almost fascinated into obedience. He didn't want it, not here, not like this, but he _was_ ready for it, finally; he could not have stood to have America – a mere teenager – make love to him in the comfort of their bed, but in the waning light of the day against a tree and overlooking a battlefield...

...He was ready to let him try.)

America had pulled off both of their coats before he had begun; during it, both in buff waistcoats and white shirts, they had not looked as though they were on opposing sides. England, his wrists released, had clung around America's back, his face pressed to his chest and feeling the thick blunt shape of the cross against his cheek. He had heard America pant a string of things in time with his clumsy thrusts, "England" and "Arthur" and "Daddy".

England crumpled when America pulled back from him, sliding down the tree and knocking his own musket over as he watched America buckle himself up again – he wasn't smiling, tucking his shirt in distractedly. England didn't say anything.

America bent and picked up both coats, holding up red in one hand and blue in the other as he rose again.

"Baby, you must choose," he said, his voice and gaze both rather flat.

England blinked at him. Did he truly mean for him to choose...?

No. America waited a moment longer, and then came to a decision himself; he threw the blue coat at England and put the red coat on, leaving it open. England let the blue coat lie crumpled across his lap as he watched America in bewilderment – the boy was fumbling with his shirt collar, hooking out the chain of his cross.

Upon grasping it, he yanked the whole thing off over his head; and then, bending again, he slipped it around England's neck instead, pausing long enough to kiss him on the forehead before springing up and turning away. His pace was quick as he retreated without another word, picking up his musket as he left, red staining his back as England's dead sons and brothers and fathers stained the field on which they had fallen.

When he was alone, England closed his hand around the wooden cross and closed his lips around the Pater Noster.

("Daddy, I love you. Do not die on that field in red.")

* * *

'Pater Noster' is, of course, the Latin name/version of 'Our Father'. On that note, 'E Nomine Patris' means 'In the name of the Father'. As far as the religious aspect in this fic goes, I'm bending canon as it is and I know there was that bit in an episode where England was chased around by the Pope for like a whole half of the five minutes because he wouldn't cut his hair (or something like that, I forget...), but otherwise the series tends to skirt around the religious implications of country-to-country interactions. I thought it might be interesting to bring that in since a lot of the European countries – particularly Spain and Italy – are fiercely Catholic while, conversely, Britain (or England and Wales, at least) has been Protestant since the end of the reign of Mary I. I suppose arguably England's characterisation perhaps doesn't lend itself as well to an interpretation of religious faith as, for example, North Italy's does (I can see Feliciano believing in God, anyway) – but he _does_ have a whole church name after him (Church of England FTW) and it's the Protestant faith of the English settlers as opposed to the Catholic beliefs of the French and Spanish ones which was adopted by the USA.

Again, I'm not sure if America really strikes me as the religious type, but... well, maybe? God Bless America! XD

**Why So Blonde, **_**Hetalia**_**? **In reference to Germany's reprimand of Prussia insinuating that America is dumb because he happens to be blonde. Anyone not colour-blind will have observed by this point that America is nowhere _near_ the only blonde in the series, joined by England, Canada, France, Germany (hence why he was pissed), Russia, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, Norway, Sealand, Latvia, Poland, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Belgium, Holy Roman Empire and Germania. Some are less blonde than others (like Latvia, Russia, Denmark and Norway), but that's still eighteen blondes (nineteen if you want to count Belarus' altered anime hair-colour).

SO, EnglandxLoli!America (or, well, Shota!America). Yeah, I went there. Actually it was meant be – at least partially – symbolic of the way Britain took advantage of the American colonies via taxes and the like, which America just took for a while because Britain was like "Well, we own you, and this is how it works" and America was like "Um... okay" – until at last America was both all like "Hey, waaaaait a minute..." and big and strong enough to give Britain a taste of its own F-in-the-A medicine. So, hey, maybe it's somewhat canon – even if the shota-con front in _Hetalia_ is in fact manned by Spain and not England. That's why Romano is so pissed off all the time – you would be too if you'd had Spain perving on you your entire childhood only to find his ungodly lust for you didn't peter out once you weren't eleven anymore and he _still_ wants into your pants really really badly.

On that note: **It was alright it if it was what America wanted/Surely, **_**surely**_**, it was much too kind, much too loving, to be abuse. **No, England. No, it's not. This way of looking at it is relative to the fic itself – in part to reflect the way England is in fact manipulating America (and not the other way around, as America thinks he's doing with his super-sparkly-shota-smexiness or whatever) to ease his own guilt and in part to reflect the way England's abuse of America has severely fucked him up (i.e. made him think that an adult having sex with his twelve-year-old charge is normal – IDK, maybe England has a stack of _Kuroshitsuji_ doujinshis that America found...). And, in fact, the damage is long-lasting because America never really learns that what England did to him when he was a child was wrong – I suppose the behaviour America displays in this fic might actually be considered some form of Stockholm Syndrome (oh, Sweden, let Finland go already...) or something since he never manages to truly break away from England and in the end they're back in pretty much exactly the same relationship pattern (just 'Now With Disrupt UN Meeting Function!').

Honestly I wrestled with myself over whether or not to put the shota in there – all the moral/paedophilia/daddy-kink stuff aside, it kind of makes it look like England therefore _deserves_ everything else of a less-than-pleasant nature that happens to him in the fic, which, with regards to the actual historical United Kingdom/actual historical events involving it (such as the Blitz, which we're getting to), isn't necessarily true. Gah, _Hetalia_, why must you make everything so morally-complicated...? O.o

Well, in the end I did it. I felt like it was a better reason for all the daddy-complex-angst stuff I wanted to explore in this fic than simply teenaged!America sulkily nursing a hard-on for his oblivious paternal figure only to one day realise that said oblivious paternal figure is like four feet tall and therefore (in what might be considered "France Terminology") easily rapeable – I mean, that's been done to death in this fandom, really it has... So instead we end up with a fic in which America has been so badly screwed up he doesn't even realise there's anything wrong with him. =(

"**Baby, you must choose" – **A line borrowed from Rebecca West's _The Return of the Soldier_. That is all.

As before, mostly due to its ridiculous length, this fic is a two-shot, so look out for the second half within the next week! Thanks for reading this part and Happy 4th July! =)

RR xXx


	2. II: Et Filii

Okay, so, I said two-shot but... this thing just ended up being so horrifically long (idevenk how) that I thought it would be better for me to break it into three parts so it looked less scary and would strain your eyes less. I mean each of the three "chapters" by themselves are still pretty long, but I thought of you, okay? XD

(Altogether on the original single Microsoft Word document it stands at 43 pages of Size 8 Verdana, totalling at 29, 652 words, not including the title, quote or ANs. I surprise even myself sometimes. O.o)

BUT I SAID TWO-SHOT, so I just posted chapters 2 and 3 together since they were both done. ENJOY.

Thanks to my lovely reviewers for Part I: **Mr Tomatoe, anon, Anastasya Debbie, Narroch, Synxailla, lishtar, yellowrose87, lovingbird, emptyjournalsong, flamethrowerqueen, Tensai55 **and** TechnoRanma**!

Okay, so as **Narroch** pointed out, this wasn't _shota_-shota (as in, I didn't stoop to the lows of the _Kuroshitsuji_ fandom and actually describe it in excessive detail) but it was shota enough and I'm glad I wasn't shuuuuuuuuuuunned for writing it, lolololol.

As a heads-up (as opposed to a "warning"), from here on this fic takes on a _slightly_ different tone. I don't even know how to describe it – it's sort of... more _supernatural_? O.o Um, well, that's misleading. You shall see what I mean when you get there, I'm sure.

Oh, and if you thought _America_ was the crazy one in this thing...

England. Bitchplz. I haven't even _started_.

II – Et Filii

For years the cross hung from the corner of the largest mirror in the house, gathering dust between his visits so that he was compelled to take it down and clean it gently every time he returned – which became less and less frequent as his presence in the newly-formed United States of America became unneeded and unwelcome.

He had found the piece of birch from which it was made here – the chain came from Britain but the cross itself had never left America's lands and he was loathe to remove it, even now that it was a revoked gift.

He thought about leaving it in the house when he departed for good that morning; but felt that abandoning it as though it were an old chair or candlestick, an unwanted piece of furniture belonging to the house, was not right.

He thought about burying it in the garden so that the earth might rot at least the wood and take it back; but somehow that seemed an unfitting end, too human for an object.

He thought, halfway across the Atlantic, about throwing it overboard into the sea so that it would wash away exactly between them; but didn't like to entertain the thought of it eventually coming ashore elsewhere as an eroded message for someone else to find.

He slipped it into his pocket and closed his hand around it as his feet met with London – as his land rose to greet him. He thought that, for now at least, he would hold on to it – perhaps take it with him to St Paul's.

It had always helped him to pray.

* * *

England didn't know if he was more surprised to find America in London or in the company of Denmark and Holland.

England hadn't seen him for years – not since 1812, in fact. He was taller again, more mature in the face, and wearing his glasses. He was dressed nicely but the clothes themselves were in a bit of a state, crumpled and crooked as though he had been wearing them all day and had not bothered to attend to them since putting them on that morning.

This was a sailor's tavern down near the docks, which explained Denmark and Holland – England saw them frequently since they hopped all over the place, trading, just as he did – but did that mean that _America_ had sailed here? Or had he just come over with one of them for a bit of an adventure?

America coming East – _that_ was strange. After that last war between them, America had seemed to want to cut all ties with England and Europe altogether. He retreated from the East and started going West across his own lands, as far away from all of them as he could get. England could appreciate that – he, after all, had once viewed America himself as an escape from the relentless turmoil of Europe, a haven of uncharted earth and hand-in-hand with a wide-eyed child who thought the entire world consisted of only the two of them and a path pointing West.

It was a conflicting feeling, therefore, seeing him so comfortable in the company of others; Denmark was talking, waving his hands around animatedly, and America was watching him, wide-eyed, lapping up every word. Then Holland said something and all three of them laughed. England could appreciate that – he liked Holland and Denmark himself and often drank with them when they showed up on his shores. And it _was_ nice to see America out of his shell; he had always been a bit of an odd child, clinging to England's coat-tails and refusing to be away from him for an hour at most at a time. England hadn't minded then, happy to have the boy in his company all day every day, but as America had gotten older and his behaviour had begun to worsen, England had started to wonder if he hadn't ruined America by spoiling him.

But still, he couldn't help but be a little... jealous. Here America was in _his_ land after all this time and he didn't seem to be terribly interested in seeking out his company. Yes, they had fought two wars fairly recently but they were nations and things like all got to be water under the bridge in the end, really.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the cross on its chain, nestled safely in the lining.

Nothing for it but to go over there. England straightened his cravat and approached them nonchalantly, pretending not to notice America immediately as he greeted Denmark and Holland and received a hearty slap on the back from the former for his trouble.

"And I take it you have met America?" Denmark joked, gesturing to America – who had said nothing but gave England a small, hopeful smile when their gazes met. "England, America – America, England. Be nice to each other."

"Yes, yes," England sighed, going along with the charade and putting his hand out towards America to shake with him.

America merely blinked at him – and then swayed suddenly and grabbed at Denmark's shoulder to steady himself.

"He has had a little to drink," Holland muttered to England. "Denmark is a bad influence."

England and Holland looked at them; Denmark was engaging America in some kind of clumsy waltz, manoeuvring him like a puppet.

"Did he sail over here with you?" England asked in a low voice.

Holland nodded.

"From Asia," he said. "I was visiting Japan – he and I are good friends, you know – and it seems that America has also made friends with him. I informed him that I was sailing to Great Britain next and he insisted that he be allowed to accompany me."

England blinked, then looked at America again.

"Is that so?" he asked absently.

(Made friends with Japan? _That_ was interesting – but not as interesting as America wanting to come to Britain...)

"Well," Denmark said, appearing at Holland's side, "I need to rest up, for I return home tomorrow." He glanced at Holland. "Are you not sailing on to Ireland?"

Holland nodded.

"Yes, we should retire," he said blandly.

Denmark reached out and clapped England on the shoulder.

"Then we leave our charge in your capable hands – I am sure you shall make a wonderful father," he said, and he slung his arm around Holland's shoulders and practically marched him out of the tavern.

Abruptly and unexpectedly left alone with America, England turned to him; he was sitting on a bar stool, watching England intently with his head a little to one side. He smiled at England's attention.

Drunk.

England smiled himself and went to him, putting a hand to his back.

"Well then, Alfred," he said warmly, "what say I buy you another drink?"

* * *

America was very, very drunk.

Much too drunk to stay upright without support and much too drunk to have been able to give any sort of real consent.

Which completely explained why he was in England's lap in public, naked from the waist down and with his head thrown back in drunken ecstasy. He probably didn't even _remember_ that they were in public; a dark, dingy corner table in one of London's most notorious "music halls".

"How low you stoop, Angleterre," France purred off to his right; _he_ was somewhat drunk too, but still sober enough to enjoy every moment of the free show he was getting. "The poor boy can barely see straight. Ah, come morning he will wonder why his backside is so sore, non?"

"Probably." England scowled at him – by a strange turn of events, he was the least intoxicated. "I say, would you mind shutting your infernal trap for a moment? Alfred is rather heavy – I shall drop him if you do not allow me to concentrate."

"Hmm." France leaned towards the table, resting his chin on one hand, and leered at the both of them over his drink. "Heavy – is that so?" He ran his gaze appreciatively over the curves of America's bare thighs – he was still plump in places with the final remnants of baby fat. "I disagree, mon cher – he merely appears quite delectable to me. You shall have to let me have a turn afterwards."

England stopped altogether; America panted, wilting, in his lap, his glasses threatening to slip right off. He was so drunk he was barely conscious. From this angle, France could not see if America was aroused at all but reasoned – from experience – that he wouldn't be surprised if the boy had rendered himself impotent with alcohol.

After all, it was no secret that England was doing this for his own pleasure. He'd been horny from the show and had waited, biding his time, until America was on the verge of face-planting the table before pulling him into his lap and whispering empty promises in his ear whilst undressing him enough to satisfy himself.

"You, Francis," England hissed, "are never to touch him, drunk or sober – do I make myself perfectly clear? You have had your "turn" with him."

"It was so long ago, though," France complained good-naturedly. "Really, Arthur, you are unfair to your Big Brother." He sighed. "You were never very good at sharing, however."

"If you must be satisfied," England replied curtly, irritably pushing America away as he nuzzled sleepily at him, "then have at _his_ brother."

"Ah, Matthieu?" France laughed. "My darling Matthieu whom you stole away from me with all that you had? Why, is he not yours more than sweet Alfred?"

England ran his hands lasciviously over America's thighs and down between his legs, making him twist, swaying in his precarious position.

"We both know that I prefer Alfred," he said simply.

"Because Alfred is stupider," France conceded, "and easier to lure into your bed." He gave a cough. "Present location not withstanding, of course." He tutted to himself. "Ah, Arthur, you worsen each day. Your bawdiness knows no bounds, I fear – your music halls and dirty songs, your brothels and your print shops selling pornography. Why, you are becoming quite as bad as I, you naughty boy. Whatever next, a Moulin Rouge in the middle of Piccadilly Circus?"

England glared at him as he finally unknotted his cravat.

"Do you _mind_?" he spat. "Take yourself off – I am _busy_."

"Mind?" France echoed. "Non, non – but please do not expect me to mind my manners in such a place and in such company." He drained his drink. "Here is a proposition, then – lend me one of your filthy coins that I might buy myself some sweeter company and I shall leave you and your drunken, well-trained boy-whore to your corner." His grin darkened. "Either that, or I shall gladly sit here as I am and watch you fuck darling drunken Alfred as I might watch one of London's finest peep-shows – with a great amount of interest. And, come morning, I shall be the first to tell the dear boy exactly what happens to him every time you invite him out for a friendly evening of a sociable nature to "improve relations" between yourselves."

England settled back better against the bench, taking America's hips and readjusting him – not overtly bothered by France's threats.

"Alfred has coins in his trouser pocket," he said absently. "Take one of those – a shilling should buy even _you_ company enough."

"I doubt it," France muttered, but he rose, located America's discarded suit trousers, took more than a shilling and sauntered off into the crowd.

England put his hands on America's waist to hold him steady – the boy seemed about ready to pass out, slumped against England's chest, his fingers threaded in the silk of his companion's open cravat. He certainly wasn't as receptive as he'd been five minutes ago.

England lifted one hand to unbutton America's shirt – his suit jacket was already open and his blue silk bow-tie was loose about his collar.

"Do you think I am stooping low, Alfred?" he asked gently; almost crooning it in the tone that one would use on a very small child. "That is unkind of France, is it not, to suggest that to find you attractive enough to bed is to lower my standards? Certainly you are prettier in a pinch than Paris' whores – and London's too, for that matter."

America shifted on his lap but didn't say anything; England wondered if he remembered where they were, who he was with, that he was even being penetrated right now. England opened his shirt and looked at his chest.

Completely bare.

England had the cross in his pocket again. He always carried it under the pretence – to himself – that one day he might be presented with the opportunity to slip it back over America's head with his permission; so far such an occasion had not been in attendance at any time in which America had indulged his company in return for a drink in the seedy underbellies of London or New York (because they at least liked to _pretend_ to be friends nowadays). Oh, it was one thing to get America so drunk that he couldn't stand, to take advantage of him when he couldn't coherently refuse, but England knew he'd never be able to talk his way into America's arms without the help of Lady Liquor with the way things were between them now.

So of course it was through a haze of alcohol that America was smiling at him. Interestingly, he was not exactly moralistic when it came to getting a quick shag out of America in a dark, dingy near-brothel; but he refused to put the cross back around the boy's neck without his sober consent.

When he was done with him in the gin-soaked filth of the so-called gentleman's establishment, England took America back to his hotel the way he always did to put him safely to bed. It had been a bit of a wasted venture – America had been a pleasant enough lap-warmer for a few minutes or so but by the time England had finished the boy had been practically falling sideways off his knees in a drunken stupor. He had slept in the cab all the way home, not bothered by the jostle of the horse and the cobbles on London's crooked streets, stumbled all the way to the third floor and was completely out for the count by the time England got him halfway undressed and under the covers.

England put on the gaslamp at the mahogany desk and sank into the plush armchair, slipping out of his velvet jacket. He was barely tipsy – certainly sober enough to know better.

"What am I to do with you, eh?" he wondered aloud, watching America sleep. "A fine thing it is indeed that I am here to look after you."

America, of course, did not hear him. England sighed and put his head in his hands. He had found himself in this position before – wondering if he should not just stay instead of silently slinking out the moment America was fast asleep. Should he not simply climb into bed next to the young man he knew more intimately than anyone else and face the consequences of his hung-over indignation in the morning as they breakfasted together?

If only he could bring himself to stop taking advantage of him, things might be different.

He often wondered why he did it. Was it his idea of revenge – a way of paying America back for abandoning him all those years ago? Was this the only way he could continue to assert himself over him when he knew, really, that America just didn't need him anymore?

France, when he accompanied them on their drinking excursions to soak up the grittier aspects of Victorian life in each of their respective lands, always found one opportunity or another to crow over England for still being so hopelessly, horrifyingly in love with a child under half his age; to tell him that, if he ever wanted his heart to heal, he had to learn to let America go – and that getting him drunk and fucking him over an ale-stained table at two in the morning in a less-than-reputable establishment in Fleet Street was not the best way of going about forgetting him.

Perhaps France had a point but England had concluded that forgetting America, breaking away from him completely, just wasn't an option. He couldn't do without him – and this case of affairs, unsatisfactory as it may have been, was better than nothing.

America was still much too trusting of England.

("You have ruined him," France mused gleefully, watching America scramble unsteadily into England's lap at very little physical urging from England himself. "Utterly ruined him, Angleterre. It is many years of hard work that I am observing here.")

England got up and fished the cross out of his pocket as he went to the bed, clasping it in his hand as he stopped to look at America, watching him sleep off the alcohol. His face was still flushed with it, the colour high on his cheeks. His dark eyelashes flickered even though he was probably too drunk to be dreaming.

England bent and kissed him on the forehead – the gentlest, sweetest kiss he had given him all night, saved until the last moment when the boy was asleep.

"I love you, Alfred," he murmured, putting the cross down on the bedside table. "Even if you will never need me again."

His kiss woke America no more than his silent departure did; the cross was back in his pocket. Somehow, stupidly, he could force _himself_ on America but not this – not when America had so purposefully given it back.

Not when he didn't know why he had.

* * *

The first night America was in the trenches, England got him drunk.

Not drunk enough to trick him into his bed; just drunk enough to – hopefully – prevent him from lying when he asked why he had given the cross back that evening before the final battle of the Revolutionary War. He had taken the necklace from the breast pocket of his uniform and dangled it in front of America's face like a pendulum, as though trying to hypnotise the boy into answering him honestly.

America watched it swing back and forth like a cat, his shoulders coiling as though he might pounce on it; but then they sagged and he deliberately looked away, watching a rat scrabbling in the corner of the dugout with exaggerated interest.

Without even looking, England pulled his revolver from his belt and shot the rat; America jumped violently and gave England his attention again, his eyes wide.

"I asked you a question," England said coldly, putting his gun back roughly.

America swallowed; but his eyebrows lowered noticeably.

"Will you shoot me too if I don't answer?" he asked quietly.

"Alfred, I shan't put up with your silliness. It was a simple enough question."

There was a long moment of silence.

"_Because_," America burst out suddenly, "when you gave it to me, you said it would keep away the monsters."

"And did it not?" England asked gently.

America was still a child in so many ways – he could easily be manipulated, _persuaded_ to change his mind about this and that. Even his being here, a mile of mud and a roll of barbed wire separating them from Germany and Austria, in his new uniform didn't mean a thing – there were boys as young as fifteen, sixteen, out there dying for King and Country, all somebody's son sacrificed on the Somme.

No, America's youth meant nothing except that it prevented him from seeing England's abuse for what it was. He had never once dominated England – or even tried to – since that time above the battlefield, happy instead to be talked into the arms that had been taking advantage of him his entire life by this excuse or that drink.

"Do you mean to say that it did not keep away war?" England went on.

But America shook his head.

"No," he said. "It was back then – I heard you whisper something in my ear, and I knew then that I had to give back the cross which you had carved for me, that it might protect you instead." He watched the necklace swing a moment more, and then glanced up at England in drunken desperation. "Why did you take it off, Arthur? I put it about your neck as you put it about mine."

"Because it is yours, Alfred."

More silence. America looked at the scarlet semi-circle in the corner, frowning at how far the fragments of flesh and bone had travelled across the floor.

"What did I say?" England pressed. "I don't recall saying a thing. Tell me."

"You..." America waved his hand at him absently, still looking at the remains of the rat – another of England's casualties. "It doesn't even matter anymore."

(It was clumsy and painful and America couldn't work out how to hold him still, hurting him with every movement. England put his hand to the back of America's neck, resting his own cheek on the boy's shoulder.

"Not you," he murmured, closing his eyes. "A monster.")

* * *

"So it's over now," America said flatly. "It's over because you said it is. An hour ago you were sending men out to die against his and now we're all going to crawl out of the trenches and dust ourselves off and shake hands and be friends—"

"Alfred, stop it."

"But isn't that it?" America burst out. "Isn't that what is going to happen, Arthur? Allies, enemies, all decreed by a word here and there – a British man will either take up or lay down his gun against a German boy of nineteen young enough to be his son—"

"Alfred, I won't hear any more of this!" England tilted his head at the high-pitched sound which came next. "Now there's the whistle. Up and over, lad – and for mercy's sake, leave your gun." He reached over and pried the rifle from America's hands. "Leave it, I say!"

America was reluctantly parted from his gun and practically frog-marched out to the ladders, England escorting him by the arm. It had just struck eleven and there was absolutely no sound whatsoever from above. The sky was unforgivingly grey, stretching over the trenches an across the expanse of No Man's Land. France, looking haggard and relieved, joined them at the ladders, Canada close behind him.

"Where's Australia?" England inquired of him absently. "I haven't seen him for a while."

"Further back," France said. "He received the message, however."

"Very good." England nodded.

They all paused, listening to the silence.

"Shall we go up, then?" England prompted.

He was gone before there was any agreement, the first over the top. The field was a scar on France's lands, carved up by carnage with the preciseness of a plough, littered with the bones and twisted corpses of soldiers exactly as they had fallen, dented helmets and torn fragments of uniforms, rusted rifles and spirals of barbed wire like lace threaded into the mud. There was a low-hanging mist, but through it was visible the uneven line of the living dead emerging, Germany and Austria and Hungary and all of their men braving the land which – only an hour before – had been no man's land and every man's grave.

England surveyed it all with a grim sense of satisfaction. This was what war was supposed to look like, after all.

He felt a hand on his back and glanced to his right, expecting to find America having come to him for comfort. Instead he found France and looked away again in irritation.

"Well?" he bit out.

"A fine job we have done, non?" France mused. "Does this satisfy your bloodlust for now, Angleterre?"

England shrugged away from him.

"Get away from me," he spat.

"No kind word for Big Brother?" France asked, sounding somewhat amused. "Then have you not at least a kind word for your child?"

He gestured with his hand and England followed the flamboyant movement, finding that France was indicating to America.

America, who had collapsed to his knees as he took in the sight before him, wide-eyed and trembling, barely noticing the embrace that his sweet, quiet brother had wrapped him in.

England looked away absently.

"Oh, that behaviour is nothing new," he murmured. "He is quite impossible at times. Frightened by the air-raids, crying if left on his own, frequently disobeying orders and refusing to keep to his own chamber at night – I tell you, I rue that it was I who raised him..."

France gave a sudden cold little laugh.

"Angleterre, Arthur... May I just say that I am surprised he even lived to see this Hell, it having _been_ you who raised him." France grinned. "There, you see – Big Brother has no kind word for _you_. Do not forget that it was _I_ who raised _you_, and after all... I know you well. I know what kind of cruelty you are capable of."

England looked at him again, his gaze far sharper.

"What did you want with a child?" France went on dangerously, his voice low and vicious. "I fancied it must just be a whim of yours – a streak of kindness which would end as soon as you got bored. Because you can be nasty when you are bored, can you not?" He wound his arm around England's shoulders. "Hmm, Arthur? Aren't you at your most vile when you are in the throes of boredom? Isn't that when you start wars, take sides and engage in such uncouth activities as piracy? Oh, Arthur! Do you remember the rabbit I gave you when you were a child? A pet all of your own to care for?"

England stiffened under his touch suddenly, not venturing an answer. France smirked.

"Ah, of course you do. It was a very long time ago, but how could you forget? You loved that _petit lapin_, hmm? But then, a very strange thing! What happened to the rabbit, Angleterre? What did you do to it?"

"I killed it," England replied expressionlessly. "I strangled it with a leather cord and then buried it at the end of the garden beside the birches. I dug the grave for over an hour because I wanted it to be deep."

"A strange thing indeed," France mused. "Why, Arthur? Why kill it if you loved it so?"

England paused before answering this time.

"It was hurt," he said. His voice was still flat. "It hurt its paw on a thorn."

"A minor injury."

"Still, I thought it best to put it out of its misery."

"Such a vicious little creature you are," France purred, squeezing England's shoulders; and then he glanced slyly at America. "And therein I expected _him_ to go the same way. I thought you would fuss and fawn over him until he bored you and then you would convince yourself with some contrived excuse and lead him out into the woods where his screams wouldn't be heard. I was waiting for you to do it – I remain surprised that you haven't and that he is still alive." France sighed. "Of course, you have shown your true colours in other ways – I should hardly complain about you not hanging him from the same birch tree you played games with him beneath when you took him to your bed when he was still but a boy—"

"As was I when you took me to yours," England interrupted curtly, wrenching himself out of France's grip. "Oh, of course you're right, Francis – of course I thought about killing him. It would have been so easy to do it – he trusted me so much I probably could have talked him into allowing me to behead him with the woodcutting axe. But I didn't want to, so I kept going away to Europe to prevent myself from grabbing him about the throat. Why end the damage I had done to him just like that? Why not just let him grow, continuing to ruin him, and see what he became?"

"A selfish experiment; and now you rue it?"

"Isn't that parenthood?"

"_Failed_ parenthood, perhaps."

"Then you failed, Francis – you raised a murderer. That rabbit wasn't my last."

"Nor your first, I shouldn't wonder."

"Well, don't worry." England started away from him at long last. "This has quelled my boredom for now."

—

"I'm going home," America said.

"Yes, I think that would be best," England replied absently, concentrating more on scrubbing America's hair while the boy washed the mud off himself. It was an old tin tub before the fire, all there was on offer in such a tiny, cheap hotel, and England knelt behind him to wash his hair.

He'd expected America to protest that he was old enough to do it himself the way he used to, but he was subdued and seemed glad of England's presence.

"Tomorrow, I mean," America went on. "I can't stay here any longer, Arthur. This... it's all just—"

"I know," England interrupted casually. His kissed America's right shoulder, bare and damp with steam. "I agree. This isn't for you. Leave the negotiations to us, Alfred."

America was silent for a moment.

"You're mocking me, aren't you?" he said softly. "You're angry that I'm leaving, you think I'm a coward just running away from it all—"

"Alfred, it's fine, really." England picked up a jug of warm, clean water next to him and poured it over America's head without a word of warning, rinsing out the soap. "Just let Daddy handle it, hmm?"

"What will you do?" America asked, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. "Tear apart Germany for yourselves?"

"I expect so." England dipped his hand into the water, reached across and rubbed a streak of wet mud off America's bent knee – he was much too big for this bath, his frame too broad and his legs too long. "There now – I think you're all clean."

America nodded and awkwardly managed to scramble out of the bath, unfolding himself like a spider from the corner of its web as he rose and stepped out, taking a towel from the rack near the fire and wrapping it around himself like a cloak.

"Not caked in six months' worth of filth," he sighed, settling next to the fire with the towel draped all around him, "and _warm_."

"A luxury indeed," England agreed.

America looked at him.

"Are you going to bathe now?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I sit here by the fire?"

"Of course not – Alfred, I expect you've seen me naked more times than you've seen... well, a lot of things." England waved his hand dismissively. "Besides, even if I was self-conscious, you are not wearing your glasses."

"Yes, I can't see small things without them."

"Alfred Franklin Jones, you are going to be sleeping on the floor if you don't hold your tongue."

"Arthur whatever-your-middle-name-is Kirkland, I just spent a year in a _trench_."

"Try four years, I meant the _corridor_ floor and—" England pulled off his tie, "–I don't _have_ a middle name."

America shut up.

England fit better in the bath, hooking his legs over the sides and sliding down so that the water came up to his collarbone. It was already muddy due to America having taken his bath before him, but at a time like this they simply had to share the water and that was that. It didn't matter. It would probably take him a month to get completely clean again, anyway – it was just nice to feel the hot water around him like a blanket, to close his eyes and listen to nothing but the crackle of the fire in the grate, no gunshots and explosions and the groans of dying men.

America came closer and played with England's feet, holding onto one stubbornly as England tried to instinctively pull them back. He still had the towel wrapped around him like a shroud, peeking out from under the hood he had made of it as he traced the shapes of England's toes and then laid his hand flat against the sole of his foot.

"You're so tiny," America mused. "Look at that – my hand is almost longer than your foot." He kissed England's ankle.

"I am _not_ tiny," England huffed, succeeding in pulling his foot back.

"Yes, you are," America argued mildly. "But it's fine. I like you exactly as you are – and besides, everyone else is still terrified of you, so it doesn't matter if you're not very tall."

England gave a sigh and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and the warmth and the calm were making him sleepy.

"And are _you_ afraid of me, Alfred?" he hummed, not opening his eyes.

"No," America replied. "Of course not."

Well then. How ironic. If only he knew how close, on one occasion, he had come to being suffocated with a pillow; or how close, on another, he had come to being drowned in the lake; or how close, on quite another more recent occasion, he had come to having his throat slit by England's bayonet whilst he slept.

Of course, England didn't really want to kill him – that was why he always restrained himself at the last moment and flung aside the bayonet with a gasping sob. It was just that he felt _compelled_ to.

No, it wasn't that. He _did_ want to kill America, actually. He just didn't want him to be dead. He couldn't stand the thought of being without him – but he wanted to _kill_ him, yes. He wanted to watch him die. He was convinced that it would be a beautiful sight, something you didn't see everyday, something to stave off his boredom with America because really America _was_ boring at times, keeping to himself and making silly gadgets, and England was an Empire who didn't want to sit and watch the boy wind up clockwork aeroplanes. How much more entertaining it would be to torture him to death instead.

But death, of course, was an irreversible state of affairs – that he knew well enough – and so he stopped himself every time. Why waste America for a moment's delight?

America eventually pattered away to get dressed, pulling on his old nightgown with the frayed cuffs where he had torn off the lace, and was sitting on the bed drying his hair by the time England was out of the bath and in flannel pyjamas that had been to the trenches but not been worn much because it had been too cold. Only one bed, of course, old and with a spindly metal frame and thin sheets – this entire hotel, right in the heart of war-torn France, looked as though it hadn't been refurbished since the 1860s. The wallpaper was cracked and peeling away from the walls like the fronds of palm trees and only one small lamp worked, the mirrors were tarnished and offered no reflection whatsoever, there was mould around the sink and the fireplace was filthy with soot. And the bed, barely big enough for two people, sagged in the middle.

How glorious it was to those just out of the trenches.

America pushed himself up against the wall to make room for England, greedily gathering him into his arms as he settled and pulling him flush against his chest. He had suffered terribly in the trenches, left a nervous wreck by the air-raids and shellings and clinging to England at night to stop himself from shaking. His size didn't allow him to burrow deep into England's arms and hide as he had once done, so instead he caged him in _his_ arms and refused to let him go no matter how much England squirmed about, as if thinking him some kind of charm to keep away the dreams of death and decay.

Ironic, thinking himself safe with England to protect him. Oh, England had always protected him his entire life – from absolutely everything except England himself.

Still, he settled in America's grasp, slipping one arm beneath America's and hooking his hand over his shoulder; America's chin was propped on the crown of his head. England could still smell mud and gunpowder on them both, lurking beneath the clinical scent of flat, cheap soap, and the mustiness of the old bed. The entire room was cold, the heat of the fire having barely spread, and America shivered and snuggled closer to him, tangling up their legs to conserve heat.

England lay wide awake in his arms and listened to the uneven rhythm of their breathing and the loud ticking of the filthy clock on the wall. It had struck eleven some time ago, making the armistice twelve hours old. He was exhausted but not tired and lay wakeful until the nightmares began.

America shifted restlessly, his furrowed brow beading with sweat, and clutched at England more tightly still – England yielding to his hold on him with no protest and no sound, no movement whatsoever. He was used to this, used to sharing a bed with a terrified child, and it barely stirred him now. America crying about the horrors he had seen was the same as him crying about ghosts in the end.

Mud. England could still smell it as clearly as if they were still in the trenches. He could still feel it on his skin even though he had bathed (in water already cloudy with filth), could still taste it on America as he breathed against his neck. It was a claustrophobic scent, damp and memorable, too much like the wood of coffins and the salty bite of ash, like the sweet, dreamy headiness of poppies and the bitterness of regulation coffee that came in tins rusted from the rain. America smelt of it, the scent clinging to his skin as though he would never be clean again, all a reminder that England had fucked him up against one mud-slick dugout wall or another, happily taking him in place of France the moment he was available. He remembered America, drunk, clutching the poppies he'd picked on his way to the Allied frontline trench, as he took him that first night, devouring how clean he was, how good he smelt; dirtying him himself, pressing his back against the filthy floor, drinking down his moans before silencing them with kisses, whispering that it was okay, it would all be okay, he didn't need to worry, Daddy loved him, would never do anything to hurt him, to put him in danger.

Mm. Why would you try to clean yourself in water that was already dirty? It didn't make any sense. No wonder they both stank of Hell.

And America. Ruined for so long now, having grown into exactly what England had hoped he wouldn't; damaged further still, even, mollycoddled too much, England too indulgent of him as a child so that now war made him cry, made him dream in black-and-white barbed wire and bayonets and blood, made him want to run West. Dirty, dirty, dirty. He would never be clean again.

No wonder, now was it?

England slipped out of his arms, got on top of him and strangled him.

—

"Arthur. _England_." America shook him awake. "I'm leaving. I need to catch my train to the harbour."

England opened his eyes and looked up at him. Of course he wasn't dead. Again, England hadn't had it in him to do it – to finish it, to put him out of his misery. He had come close, though – the closest he had ever been to killing him.

America had bruises. His shirt collar was pulled up high and his tie was knotted neatly but they were still visible, a circle of delicate blue about his throat like a chain.

"Yes," England said absently, closing his eyes again. "Yes, I think that would be best. You should leave, Alfred. Go West where it's safe."

America nodded, rubbing at his arm as though he wanted to say something else.

"Bring me my jacket," England said, holding out his hand. "My uniform one."

America scurried to get it, bringing it back and dumping it onto England's chest; watching the older man curiously as he went through each of the pockets of the dirty green garment and finally closed his fist around something.

"What's that?" America asked, as though prompted. "What's in your hand, Arthur?"

"A present for you." He left off the "darling". "If you want it, open your hands."

America hesitated; and then held out his open palms. England reached out and dropped the cross into them, the chain coiling coldly into the cup of his hands.

"You wear it well," England said flatly; and he turned over and went back to sleep.

("What are you doing?" America asked, opening his eyes. He didn't sound terribly panicked or afraid.

England smiled down at him in the dark, his hands firmly around his throat.

"Killing you, darling.")

* * *

"Are you still thirsty, Alfred?"

England poured another glass of water as he said it, pushing it across the table towards America; it swayed back and forth in the cut crystal, glimmering even in the lavender light of a late London evening. It was not hot here, not dry and dead and dusty – as always, England had as much rain as he pleased and more.

Perhaps not money, perhaps the days of ruby cufflinks and gold brooches on silk cravats had ended alongside 1929 for him just as much as America had had to kiss goodbye to his Roaring Twenties; but water. He had water. A rain-blessed island could not know the Dust Bowl, could not know thirst like this.

(England had telegrammed him. _Come to mine and I shall drown you in as much water as you like._ Need had tempted him East once more.)

America didn't hesitate. He took the glass and drained it, leaning back in his chair as he put it back on the table rather heavily. He couldn't even remember how many glasses he'd had now – England was just sitting there with the pitcher pushing one after another at him, knowing he would drink. He was full, his stomach swelling against his worn belt, nothing inside him but water, more water than he had ever drank before, and still his thirst was not quenched; his throat was still dry and his lips were still cracked and his skin was still rough and tight.

England poured him another glass without a word and he drank that as well; he was exhausted from drinking and had to undo his belt in order to be comfortable and still he inwardly screamed for hydration.

"You seem frustrated," England mused, watching America lean forward and press the heels of his hands against his forehead. "More?"

He raised the pitcher and America shot out a hand to stop him.

"I can't," he said. "I can't drink any more, I'm too full." He gave a sudden amused laugh. "Are you trying to make me burst, Arthur? I'm sure as hell you don't want my innards all over these lovely paintings you've looted from France over the years."

"Spain and Italy, too." England nonchalantly poured another glass. "You're avoiding the point. Are you still _thirsty_?"

"Like the devil."

"Then drink."

America drank. He couldn't refuse it even though his belly had begun to ache from the pressure. He put down the glass and slumped across the table.

"I'm going to explode," he said in a rather matter-of-fact tone. "I warned you. You'll have only yourself to blame when you're mopping up my guts."

"Don't be so utterly absurd." England stood and came around the table; he still looked remarkably well put together despite his own financial situation, his shirt not missing three buttons or worn at the elbows as America's was. "Still, if you are positive that you have had your fill, we can move on."

He put his hand on America's shoulder and nudged at him, implying that he wanted him to get up. America rose obediently, feeling the liquid move inside him as though it was one of his lakes, Michigan or Erie, his belly heavy with it.

"Move on?" he questioned warily. He resisted the hand England had put to his back. "What are you plotting, Arthur?"

England grinned dryly at him.

"Plotting? You give me too much credit." He lowered his hand enough to pat America firmly on the rear. "Didn't I say I had a solution?"

America looked at him tiredly. His glasses were grimy with dust, as was the rest of him, and he wasn't in the mood for England's cryptic games.

"What can you do?" he asked. "Besides somehow getting me to drink half the Thames."

"If that water had come from the Thames, you'd be dead." England patted him again, more insistently. "You're just going to have to trust me, Alfred. You can at least do that, can't you?"

"...I suppose." America yielded to England pushing at him again and let him steer him into the next room, disconcerted by the sensation of the water within him swaying like the sea against the walls of his stomach.

He was led into a room empty of furniture except for an old desk against the far wall; next to it was what looked like stack of large paintings with a heavy, dust-thick cloth thrown over them. The only other thing in the high open room, sitting in the middle of the floor on the bare boards, was a bath. It was nothing like the meagre tin can they had shared back in 1918; it was old, certainly, but luxurious, white porcelain curving up in a shape not unlike a petal or a shell, and it stood proudly off the floor on bronze lion's feet. It was large, deep and full of water, clear and crystal and cold.

"...I hope you don't want me to drink that," America said at length, glancing uneasily at England.

"No," England sighed. "I want you to get in it."

"I don't need a bath." America looked down at his dusty, grubby clothing. "Well, I _do_, but it's hardly top of my priorities—"

"Keep your clothes on," England cut in dismissively. He flapped his hands at America, half-chasing him towards the tub. "It's not a scrub you need – it's water."

"You _gave_ me water. Lots of water. So much water, in fact, that I'm going to be pissing like Niagara Falls—"

"When you have _quite_ finished being so obscene," England snapped, "please get in the bath. Didn't I ask you to trust me?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"And you _do_ trust me, don't you?"

"Y-yes, but I don't—"

"Then do as I tell you."

"Alright, alright, _jeez_." America went to the edge of the bath, kicked off his shoes and removed his belt completely before stepping into the lower end of it and turning so that he could lie down in it properly. "Ah, it's freezing!" he hissed, shuddering as he sank to his waist and then his chest.

"I expect it is." England came to the side of the bath and knelt, watching him. "Go right down."

"Like this?" America felt the chill of the water touch his chin. "Low enough?"

"No, go right under."

America blinked at him in bewilderment.

"Um... _right_ under?"

"Yes. Trust me."

"You say that too much," America muttered, taking off his glasses and putting them in his pocket. "You're like a snake."

"A snake wouldn't go to this much trouble to cure boredom." England frowned, seeming to catch himself, and then smiled again, far more sweetly than was normal for him. "I mean cure _you_, of course."

America couldn't help but smirk at him.

"Are you going to drown me, Daddy?"

"Don't be silly," England said briskly, composing himself. He rolled up his sleeves and pressed at America's chest. "Go on, then, under you go."

America let him push him under, sinking until the back of his head came to rest against the porcelain bottom of the bath. He observed that England's hand was still on his chest even once he was underwater, anchoring him against the buoyancy of his air-filled lungs. He opened his eyes and glanced about; from down here all he could really see was the ceiling and England, both wavering to and fro on the other side of the wall of water. Even with his glasses off, even with the water warping England's image, America could see how deeply green his eyes were; they were like fields and forests, like the damp moss on old buildings and lily leaves floating on lakes. He had eyes like lands alive with lush vegetation, flourishing farmlands and great flat prairies fragrant with heather and deep woods thick with ferns and flowers and fairy-rings.

How America's land had once been before his people, his grandfathers and fathers and sons, had farmed it to dust.

He would trust England, then. How could England not be able to help him with eyes like that and all this water – as much water as he could drink, as he could sink beneath so that he was submerged beneath its surface like cold cradle? Why, it had been raining as he'd docked in London – England had been clutching an umbrella when he'd come to fetch him, shaking his head as America had gone bounding off down the street with his arms open, jumping in every puddle as he had when he was small.

So he waited. He was patient, lying there beneath the icy water in the empty room, drumming his fingers in a little Charleston rhythm against the bottom of the tub. He fancied that he could feel the water seeping into him everywhere, even through his skin, and his stomach felt fuller still for his being surrounded, as though he was a flooding river that would swell and burst and bleed over the land. That would be alright. If it would not rain then the wash of broken rivers would suffice instead – anything, anything, to give his land back its life.

But then, with a rude suddenness, came the need for oxygen. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it for as long as he could, wanting to stay under longer; but it heightened and burned until he was twisting under England's hand as he reached up to tap at him. He tried to sit up even as he did so, hoping that it would convey that he wanted to come up for air.

England pushed him back against the bottom of the bath. Already out of air, America panicked, not even thinking anymore as he began to thrash, clawing at England, kicking with all of his strength at the sides of the bath to try and break it—

England leaned further over him and pressed his other hand against his chest, too; pinning him to the bottom of the tub, although it was presumably taking everything he had to keep America there with him flailing about in raw inhuman terror, fight-or-flight trying to damage England in any way that he could in order to get him off.

America had just managed to grab the collar of England's shirt when something in his chest abruptly gave and he felt as though his whole body was collapsing inwards as his vision darkened and he suddenly, uncontrollably, went limp and he felt the icy rush of water plunge deep within him, crashing inside his lungs like a wave against a brittle cove—

He was hauled upright and felt – dimly, barely conscious – something simultaneously slam against his back and up beneath his ribcage. He was brought back from the brink of blackness by the sudden need to cough and pitched forward and everything came up, all the water in his lungs and what looked like half a field's worth of dust and dirt.

He leaned forwards, still breathlessly coughing, gasping for air, and felt England clap him on the shoulder.

"Good boy, get it all up." He stood and America heard him walk away, the floorboards creaking with every step.

America didn't care. He took a deep shuddering breath and was hit with a sudden wave of nausea, ducking forwards again to throw up between his legs. Water, more water, that was all he'd had in his stomach – and there, too, more crumbled earth that settled heavily like sediment at the bottom of the bath.

Exhausted, he leaned back against the porcelain again, the water – now cloudy with dirt that might have been inside him for years – slopping at his collarbone. He raked his soaking hair out of his face, plastering it back as though with gel, and just breathed gratefully, dimly aware that this water was like that which he'd left for England in that November, already unclean with his suffering.

England came back with a towel and a glass of water. He threw the towel over America's head and offered him the glass; as he did, America saw the raw-red scrapes and scratches on his bare forearms.

America pushed the glass away.

"I'm not thirsty, Arthur," he muttered, looking aside.

"It's to wash out your mouth."

"I said I'm not thirsty," America pressed. "Not anymore."

England shrugged, eyed the filthy water and took a sip from the glass himself. He looked hideously pleased with himself.

"You're welcome," he said.

* * *

YAY FOR DENMARK AND HOLLAND!111!11! Denmark because he's one of my favourite characters so I'm glad I got to squeeze him in somewhere and Holland because he's done so well in the World Cup! Aww, well, in reality, I think they have worked hard to get into the final, so good luck to them against Spain! I'm rooting for you, Holland/Netherlands/whatever you're going by these days! =)

Speaking of Holland, they _did_ have a very good trading relationship with Japan, even prior to Matthew C. Perry's 1853 expedition to get them to open up their borders to other Western countries for trade – in fact, before the US intervention on Perry's part, Holland was the only Western nation that Japan had trading relations with (although Britain and France had tried it on a few times, only to get sent packing).

**Victorian Britain:** Surprisingly full of filth despite stereotypical Victorian sensibilities – peep shows, whorehouses and opium dens abound, particularly in lovely lovely London. I did in fact watch a very interesting documentary on it a few weeks ago called _Rude Britannia_. Ah, British TV. How I missed you.

I'm sure this is obvious, but the behaviour displayed by America during the WWI segments is not cowardice or childishness; he is suffering from "shell-shock", or what is now diagnosed in soldiers as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Anyone who has also read _O America_, the most recent _Hetalia_ fic I posted, may have noticed that America also appears to be a victim of shell-shock in that fic too. I suppose I shouldn't recycle my ideas BUT it cannot be denied that the kinds of soldiers most likely (although not exclusively) to be affected by the horrors of WWI in a way that resulted in shell-shock/PTSD were young men, often mere boys, who had signed up to fight having never been in the armed forces before. Of course the USA had been involved in wars prior to WWI – Revolution, 1812, Civil War and American-Spanish War, to name but a few – but America is the youngest and most inexperienced of the main _Hetalia_ countries and, coupled with the fact that the USA entered the war late and wasn't really expecting the kind of carnage that countries such as Britain, France and Germany were already used to after three years, it doesn't seem all that far-fetched to me that he might be mentally affected by the bloodshed, whereas countries like Britain and France, which had been killing each other for years, were more desensitised to it because they're older, sort of like veterans.

Incidentally, as a fun fact, WWI was the first time the USA ever enforced a draft.

Speaking of recycling ideas (again from _O America_), I may as well confess that the scene where England drowned America enough to get the dust out of his body was in fact meant to be in that fic and not this one – in _O America_ it was more explicit that his lungs were full of dust because he kept coughing and coughing, but... I cut it. I felt that it didn't need it and besides, England wasn't as ridiculously abusive in that fic, so it would have been a weird behavioural turn for him. It fit much better in here in that respect and I still liked it enough to want to write it, so... yeah. I suppose England _did_ help, anyway – not that Britain had _anything_ to do with the end of the Dust Bowl historically, but oh well. Like _Hetalia_ doesn't take liberties of its own...

**Franklin?** XD I have no idea what the 'F' in 'Alfred F. Jones' stands for – it's probably something stupid like 'Fantastic' or 'Fat-ass' or 'FUCK YEAH'. But I thought I'd do my usual thing of taking _Hetalia_ much too seriously and gave him 'Franklin' after Benjamin Franklin and Franklin Delano Roosevelt (who hadn't been president yet back then but never mind...).

**Fairy-ring:** I don't know if this terminology is used outside of Britain but it's a colloquial name given to a ring of mushrooms or toadstools, which is an uncommon formation. Supposedly they grow like that because fairies have danced there.

Finally, on rereading this fic for proofing purposes, I realised that I had written England as suddenly following the Light Yagami and Haruhi Suzumiya Schools of Curing Boredom; that is, his excuse for wreaking havoc is pretty much just that he's bored. That, and it looks like I'm excusing him for being a murderous paedo bastard on the basis that "He can't help it – he's European". OH WELL.

(Although, on a historical note, I would just like to point out that when the outbreak of WWI was announced throughout Europe, there was mass celebration in cities like London, Paris, Vienna, Berlin and Budapest. Why? _Boredom_. Highly-Nationalist Europe was bored of peace. Trufax. Really really. O.o)

Onwards to Pt III, lads and luvvies!

('Et Filii' – 'And the Son')


	3. III: Spiritu Sancti

Aaaaaaaaaaaand... Part III!

III – Spiritu Sancti

He'd known it wouldn't be worth his while pleading for help; better to just wait and suffer until the brat felt guilty enough to at least come and check that he wasn't dead yet. He had expected America to hide from the prospect of another brutal world war after the damage the first one had done to him mentally, but honestly he also expected America to come. Eventually.

He was sitting on the only segment of a Blitzed roof still standing, one elbow resting on his knees and the other hand absently wrapped around the mangled weathervane to his left – perched like a gargoyle, surveying the ruin of London after last night's raid, the still-smoking turrets of St Paul's – when he spotted America weaving through the rubble.

America wasn't in uniform, just a regular suit, double-breasted and dark with the pale pinstripes popular in the 30s; he hadn't come to help. He had only come to look. Still, it was better than nothing.

It took him a while to find England – who didn't help him – but when he did, he stopped at the edge of the shattered house (just a house, any house, deserted and flattened by the bombs) and looked up.

"What are you doing up there?" he called.

"Oh." England grinned at him. "A silly thing, really. I climbed up here and now I can't get down."

America shook his head at him.

"Like a cat," he said. "Shall I come up and fetch you?"

"No, no." England waved his hand at him dismissively. "You stay there where you're safe. I'll come down."

"You just said you _couldn't_ get down," America muttered; he watched England slide himself off the roof, use three pieces of smashed wall as steps and land lightly next to him, dusting down his green uniform.

"A metaphor, dear boy." England circled America, looking him up and down from every angle. "Let's have a look at you, then. It's been a few years, hasn't it?"

"Yes." America twisted his hands together nervously. "Um, Arthur, listen—"

"Oh, don't go getting all flustered," England interrupted absently. "I know you didn't come over here to help me."

"Well—"

"It's fine. I'm fine. It's all _fine_, Alfred, really." England stood in front of him again and reached up to take his shoulders. "I've done all this before – countless times. I've been in more wars than you've had hot meals."

"Maybe hot _decent_ meals that you didn't burn."

"You only say that because everyone else does," England sighed. "How nice things were before you were corrupted. Wouldn't it have been better if it had just stayed you and me forever?"

"Uh..." America blinked at him, seeming bewildered. "Arthur, are you... alright?"

"Never better, never better." England flapped his hands at him again. "Well, I expect I look bloody awful – you know, what with barely having time to pull myself back together before Germany is bombing me to bits all over again, but it's all superficial, trying to break my morale, see—"

"Arthur, you're... babbling."

"Yes, I suppose I am. Would you prefer that I ranted instead?" England glanced about at London's gutted shell. "I've plenty to rant about."

"N-no, this is... this is fine." America patted England's shoulders. "I don't like it when you get angry. You're not very nice."

"I wouldn't be much good at getting angry if I was nice while being it."

"You know what I mean, though."

"Yes, I do." England beckoned America down towards him. "In any case, Alfred, I hope you don't mean to tell me that you came all this way to haul my corpse out of some Kraut-dug ditch if need be but haven't a kiss for me?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah." America seemed to hesitate, his fingers kneading England's shoulders with an odd air of nervousness, before he bent to put them on the same level.

He didn't initiate the contact, however; and, when _England_ did, he didn't open his mouth, keeping his lips sealed against the licks and nips that had always, always worked on him. England sighed impatiently through his nose and let America go, sizing him up again. America was standing up to him. How bothersome.

Silly little boy.

"Alfred, Alfred," he murmured, taking the younger man's face in his hands, "how unlike you to be so shy. Why, concerning matters between you and I, I have to say that you hardly have much of a reputation for chastity."

America flushed pink and looked away; but, before he could open his mouth to respond, England had snatched his glasses off his face and was gone, darting away over the rubble.

"Arthur!" America grabbed blindly at him, missing him as he got away, and cursed. "Christ, I _need_ those – get back here! _Arthur_!"

"I'm over here, Alfred." England paused at what constituted the "entrance" of the Blitzed building, dangling his glasses by one of the arms. "Come and get them."

America squinted at him, scowled and started towards him – and then tripped on a lump of chimney, the loose bricks giving under his feet to send him toppling onto his face. England tutted, tucked America's glasses into his belt and went back to help him up; funny, he had never cried when he had fallen as a child, never even complained, simply bounding back up and laughing, but now he just lay there miserably as though he couldn't be bothered to push himself up.

He did, however, grab England's wrist instead of his offered hand.

"Give me my glasses," he snapped.

"Get up first," England said. "You'll have them afterwards."

America sulkily allowed England to help him to his feet; grabbing at him as soon as he was upright, short-sightedly hunting for his glasses whenever he could reach.

"Still as impatient as ever," England sighed, taking America's hand firmly and starting to lead him towards the house. "Trust me for a moment, won't you?"

"I always trust you," America whined. "Arthur, please—" He stumbled once more, "—I'm going to fall again!" He felt at the ragged wall as everything suddenly darkened. "Where are you taking me?"

"Oh, nowhere special," England hummed. "Really, it's just part of the scenery nowadays." He led America to the middle of the room, then pressed his glasses into his hand and left him.

America put his glasses back on with a grateful sigh, the sudden-grey world sliding back into focus on the other side of the lenses; he glanced about with a shiver, looking for England. This was a kitchen – or what had once been one, at any rate, gutted out and thick on every surface with the dust and debris of broken bricks and plaster. Several of the shelves had fallen or slanted and there was smashed crockery littering the floor. The light hung like a cobweb from the ceiling, suspended by its fraying wire. In the middle of the room sat the kitchen table, battered and crooked but still standing, and the more-or-less frames of four chairs, some in better shape than others.

England was at the end of the kitchen, rifling through one of the drawers. America approached him from behind, confused.

"Arthur... what are you doing?" he asked.

"Getting cutlery," England replied cheerfully, not turning to him.

America blinked.

"Why?"

"To set the table."

"And, uh... why are you doing that?"

"Well, I need to set the table for dinner, don't I?"

"...Dinner?"

"Of course. I need to feed you – you're my responsibility." England glanced at America over his shoulder. "Don't worry about anything, Alfred – I'll look after you. Why don't you go and sit down? I shan't be long."

He went back to his drawer, leaving America to stare at him in utter bewilderment.

"Uh... Arthur?" America asked tentatively. "Are you... sure you're alright?"

"Of course I'm alright," England replied briskly, laying out two forks on the filthy counter beside him. "Don't ask such silly questions. Now go and sit down like a good boy." He had found something else in the drawer – although America couldn't see what – and was examining it with some interest.

"Well, gee," America drawled sarcastically, not moving, "it's just that you're suddenly acting like it's the 1700s. Newsflash: It's 1940 and I'm not—"

"I know perfectly well what year it is," England interrupted calmly, turning on America and flashing the carving knife he'd found at the younger man's throat. "Now do as you're told."

Too stunned to come up with an argument, America backed away and sank abruptly into one of the chairs, his eyes wide. England smiled sweetly at him, twirled the knife over in his hand and tucked it into his belt before returning his attention to the drawer once again.

He eventually surfaced with knives and plates and brought them to the table alongside his forks, beginning to lay them out with a very strange preciseness. Both plates were chipped and cracked, presumably from where they had clattered against one another during the bombing, but England merely looked at them fondly as he put them in place and then smiled at America as their gazes met.

"This is nice, isn't it?" he said. "This is the trick, you see. The only way to beat Germany – aside from bombing him back, of course. You just have to carry on as normal—"

"But this _isn't_ normal!" America cut in desperately. "Arthur, stop this, please – you're scaring me."

"But Alfred," England sighed, "you're not afraid of me. You never are, never have been." He came towards America's chair and put his hands on it, leaning over him. "You remember that, don't you? Everyone else is scared of me but _you_ aren't. Why would you be? When have I ever hurt you?"

"You..." America looked away. "Jeez, did you get hit in the head during the last bomb-raid or something? You're acting all—"

"I'm acting what?" England leaned in close enough to kiss him. "How am I am acting, Alfred? Like someone up to his eyeballs in yet more maiming and bombing and killing?"

America snatched the knife from England's belt and held the point at his heart, the blade actually touching the pocket of his green uniform jacket.

"Get away from me," he spat.

England laughed at him.

"I apologise," he said, composing himself with a cough, "but you stand up to me so rarely that I cannot help but find it amusing. Either way, if that's how you feel, that is something that should have said to me a few hundred years ago." He pushed his torso forward a little, the knife creasing the material as the pressure mounted. "Not now – when there's no escape for you."

The blade broke the pocket and America snatched it away before it could sink any deeper, letting it drop with a clatter.

England merely nodded his approval.

"I'm glad you agree with me," he said.

America opened his mouth to fire back at him – but the words got no further than the bottom of his throat before the chair he was sitting in suddenly gave underneath him, seeming to completely vanish, and, as he hit the floor on his back, a cloud of ash blossomed up around him.

England straightened and held up his open hands, flicking his long fingers.

"You'll have to be more careful with the chairs," he hummed. "They're rather fragile. The Blitz, you know – does frightful damage."

America sat up, shaking his head.

"_You_ did that," he snapped. "Chairs don't... don't just crumble to ash—"

"I really don't have a clue what you're talking about, dear boy," England sighed; he put his hand under the edge of the table and flipped the whole thing onto its side with absolutely no effort or exertion, barely acknowledging that he'd done it even as the knives and forks and plates hit the floor, the ceramic shattering and bouncing out of sight.

America winced at the sound but glared defiantly up at England as the older man stood over him, those green eyes regarding him icily but curiously.

"Don't threaten me, Arthur," America said coldly. "Throwing stuff around isn't going to make me do what you want." He gave a snort of humourless laughter. "What, you waited all this time for this opportunity to show me that you can do... I don't know, _magic_?"

England sighed impatiently.

"This isn't magic, idiot," he said. He clenched his fists and suddenly brought them into his sides – and, exactly in tune with the movement, all of the cables and pipes and wires beneath the surfaces of the floor and walls and ceiling tore themselves from their confines, danced and hung like the strings of a puppet as England stilled and looked at America.

America, who was _staring_ at him in a mixture of horror and bewilderment, utterly stunned.

"This isn't magic," England said again. "This is the price of war – of the damage done to me because I won't let Germany have his way."

America merely shook his head at him.

"I... I don't understand," he said.

"That's because you've never taken damage like this," England said. "Or, at least – because that's not quite fair, to suggest that you have never suffered – you have never _perceived_ yourself to be at the very edge like this." He raised one of his arms above his head, very slowly, as if stretching, and let some of the wires wind themselves around his forearm like tame vines or tamer snakes. "This is my land, is it not?"

"London, England, Britain..." America nodded, not sure where he was going with this. "Yes. Call it whatever you want. It's yours, Arthur."

"Well, listen to this: We, as nations, are all a part of our land, just as our land is a part of us. I move under its will just as it moves under mine. You are seeing the latter of those here, Alfred."

England suddenly wrenched his arm downwards and tore down part of the ceiling. America put his arms over his head as the rubble and dust rained down as though another bomb had hit.

"Of course, this is very raw," England went on lightly, waving away the dust and shaking the loose cables from his sleeve. "What I am showing you, I mean. I have been bombed and bombed and so the wound is very open. More sensitive, you might say – therefore my poor island is more receptive to me. Whether I choose to tear it down or build it back up is another matter entirely."

"You're crazy," America hissed at him, lowering his arms. "You're going to kill us both at this rate, bring the whole building down on top of us!"

"Yes," England said, and smiled at him again. "If that's what it takes, that's what I'll do. I'll bury us both, Alfred." He paused thoughtfully. "Maybe now you see why everyone _else_ is afraid of me, hm?"

"Ha," America coughed, "I thought it was just because you robbed them all."

"Perhaps a little, but a reputation like mine doesn't come from sinking a few ships and waving around a cutlass. I haven't been invaded for almost one thousand years – haven't you wondered why that is?"

"Because nobody wants a tiny island?"

"No – because nobody wants to _attack_ a tiny island that will attack them back." England flicked his fingers again and the walls physically shook, the motion tremoring through them. "Of course I do not like to agree with you when you assert your size over mine, Alfred, but for the sake of this argument I shall do so: As far as nations go, I am rather small, both I and my actual landmass. The scope of my control is therefore more concentrated and, consequently, much stronger than that of, for example, France or Germany." He tilted his head. "The same applies to Switzerland; how else do you think he always manages to stay out of everything? _I _wouldn't go near him – and, for good reason, nobody goes near _me_."

America stared at him for another long moment, absolutely lost for words; and then, without warning, kicked himself up and bolted for the door—

"Alfred, you can't run away from me," England sighed as the boy slammed face-first to the floor barely a foot from where he'd been before, cables tangled about his legs like a web. "You had your chance to do that years ago and you never took it. It can't be helped now."

"You're insane," America spat at him, turning over so that he was on his back. "What the hell are you trying to do? Are you proving that I'm yours? Are you going to kill me? _What_, Arthur?"

"Hm." England flexed his fingers and several more wires wrapped themselves obediently around America's throat, pulling tight enough not to strangle him but to warn him of the danger he was in. "Let me ask you something. You have no intention of getting involved in all this, do you?"

"No." America tugged vainly at the noose about his neck. "Damn it, Arthur—_England_, let me _go_!"

"No, I won't. Your answer is unacceptable."

"I hardly think... that it's anything to do—"

"With me?" England laughed derisively again. "Of course it is. Didn't I make you what you are?"

"So I owe you? Or does it merely... reflect badly on you if I don't get off my ass?"

"A little of both, I think." England paused thoughtfully. "It's rather odd, come to think of it. You used to be somewhat eager about declaring war."

"Yeah – on _you_."

"Because it benefitted you." England shrugged. "Well, I'm flattered, but not satisfied."

"Too fucking bad."

"Yes, it is rather, isn't it?"

Without using the cables as an anchor this time – relying on only his hold over whatever was built or fell to ruin upon his lands – England pulled down what seemed to be the rest of the ceiling, one of the walls consequently collapsing as well and swinging inwards as though a mere piece of cardboard. Unable to rise, still trussed up by the wires, America threw his arms over his face again and squeezed his eyes shut, expecting some massive slab of ceiling to flatten him at any moment anyway—

The wave of demolition stopped and there was silence. America waited for a moment, his chest heaving, before dropping his arms again to lie flat on his back. England was leaning over him, observing him very intently. America looked away from, inspecting the new damage done to the Blitzed house – it was now a lot darker given that England had managed to create some sort of cavern, the walls slanted inwards like a house of cards.

"You've trapped us," America said in a hollow voice.

"Mm," England agreed, not sounding terribly perplexed; he shifted and America felt something warm splash onto his throat.

He felt it again as he reached up to touch it, finding it slick and wet on his fingers as he lifted them to better see that it was bright red. He looked at England properly; only now observing that he was leaning over him because he had positioned himself as a shield to protect America from the spine of steel – a support from inside the ceiling – which had consequently gone through _him_ instead.

England didn't seem to have noticed that he had a piece of metal sticking out of his chest – or, at least, didn't appear to be in any pain from it. America didn't know how to approach the subject tactfully aside from pointing at it.

"Arthur, you... you, um, have—"

"I know," England said absently. He took this as an invitation to sit on America's stomach, taking a moment to straddle him comfortably before attending to the spike. "It's come in through the back. Do you think I should push it back or pull it through the front?"

"Uh..." America blinked at him. "...Push it, surely, b-but..." He shook his head, looking up at him in disbelief. "Jesus, Arthur, doesn't that _hurt_?"

"A little bit." England tried pushing the spine but couldn't get enough leverage to get it out; he tutted to himself. "I'm going to pull it. Watch your face." He tugged it out without much more warning that that and twirled it over in his hand to have a look at it. "Yes, it's a nasty bugger, isn't it? Would've killed a human."

America was dumbstruck yet again, looking at the metal spike.

"This is a game to you, isn't it?" he whispered. "This war thing – you don't take it seriously at all, like you just get stuck into one if you're bored—"

"Now, Alfred, don't be unfair," England interrupted airily, putting the spike to America's chin and making him tilt his head back a little. "I was merely observing that I, being inhuman, was not as gravely injured by this little incident as one of my men might have been."

"Because you're a nation instead."

"That's right."

"I'm a nation too."

"Yes, you most certainly are."

"Then why did you just protect me from that spike?" America challenged. "Surely it wouldn't have killed me either?"

"No, but it would have hurt you more than it hurt me." England took the spike away from America's chin and planted it into the cracked ground somewhere off to the left of them. "My land can never damage me as I can damage my land."

"So you protected me. You protected me despite wanting to drag me into another of your goddamn wars so I can watch thousands of men be cut down for no reason whatsoever, so I can be plagued with nightmares for years because it's all I see when I sleep, the corpses of fathers and sons rotting in the rain because you and France and Germany and Austria and Russia can't go six months without deciding you need to gang up against each other—"

"Don't you _dare_ speak to me like that, you little hypocrite!" England interrupted, tightening the wires still about America's throat, briefly, enough to make him gasp for breath. "You're as guilty as the rest of us! Didn't you want to be an adult? Didn't you want me to see you as an equal? Then _grow up_ and stop pointing fingers like a child! If you wanted me to baby you your entire life and make excuses for you then you shouldn't have declared war on _me_."

America got his breath back, drawing it in with angry gasps.

"So," he panted, "is this... our tomb, Arthur?"

"Ours?" England leaned over him, planting his hands either side of America's shoulders. "No, I think not. _Mine_, perhaps. But other graves will fit you better, Alfred."

"On the field, you mean?"

"Mm." England tucked a spike of hair back behind his ear – a feminine, vulnerable motion. "But not in red."

America looked away from him.

"You're being stupid," he said ruefully. "Choosing this for a grave when you are not dying, after all your talk of being strong enough to physically crush anyone who might invade you, after bringing a whole _house_ down on top of me to prove it—"

"If the bombs keep coming then I shall have nothing left with which to crush anything," England said levelly. "That is mere logic."

"Since when does any war have any logic? The War To End All Wars? Was that logical?"

"Consider it the basic principle of equivalent exchange, then. Perhaps we are delving into theories slightly more mystical or magical in this instance – perhaps too fanciful, even, for your tastes – but if a soldier has no sword then how may he draw it in his own defence? To defend – or attack – one must have some kind of shield or weapon which is used in exchange for the defending or attacking action. Put simply, if everything of mine is turned to ash, with what do I fight?"

"With... with guns, with tanks, with—"

"You're not _listening_ to me, Alfred."

"You _are_ still strong, Arthur," America argued. "I can feel it."

"What can you feel?" England asked dully. "You haven't even touched me."

_You haven't so much as kissed me._

"That's... that's not—"

"Yes, it is." England heaved an exaggerated sigh. "I don't blame you. What do you want with me when you can have the world?" He examined one of his own hands, turning it this way and that. "You must be sick of this tired old body by now, Alfred – it's not all you have ever known but you know it the best. Of course you didn't come here to help me; what does it matter to you if I crumble to nothing alongside my lands? Of what benefit has this sceptered isle ever been to you—?"

"Stop it." America abruptly sat up again and took England's face in his hands. "Don't be like this. It's all... so pointless. Can't you see that?"

"Yes, it was all pointless, wasn't it? Raising you, even."

"You don't think that. I know you don't." America held England's head still as he tried to pull it away and leaned in to – finally – kiss him properly.

But now England was the one who was adamant on being uncooperative, grabbing at America's wrists and managing to twist free from his grip.

"I do think that," he insisted, "I do, I _do_. Nothing I did for you ever amounted to anything – I tried to protect you and nothing came of it. You're ruined and you'd have been ruined either way. You won't even wear the cross I made for you."

America said nothing to that, but he pulled one of his hands free from England's grasp and went to the breast pocket of his jacket, clawing the necklace out of it and holding it up for inspection, his expression a mix between smugness and pure defiance.

England looked at it for a moment, then batted his hand away dismissively.

"Oh, ignore me," he said. "As if that would protect you either. It's just a piece of wood. It hasn't saved you from anything, has it?"

America clutched more tightly at the cross.

"Yes it has," he argued. "It—"

"Liar. It didn't even protect you from me."

"Then why make it for me?" America burst out. "Why give it to me, why tell me it would keep away everything that could hurt me, why lie to me?"

"Oh, why anything? Why raise you, why abuse you, why be on the verge of killing you more times than you can imagine?"

America blinked at him.

"...What?"

"Don't act naïve; I can't stand it," England snapped. He pulled his other hand back, put both of them to America's shoulders and shoved him onto his back again. "America, I'm going to kill you. Are you going to let me?"

America took hold of England's elbows and looked up at him.

"I don't understand," he said quietly.

"Of course you don't," England bit out. "You never understand anything. You can feel that I'm still strong? I very much doubt that."

He tugged his arms from America's grip and moved further down him, repositioning himself rather heavily on his thighs – America's legs were notably still bound by the wires, just as the copper cords remained twisted about his throat like a physical shadow of the pretty choker of bruises England had once put there.

"What are you doing?" America propped himself up on his elbows, watching England warily. "Arthur?"

"Be a good boy, Alfred," England said lightly, not looking at him; he unbuttoned America's pinstripe blazer and opened it, immediately going to his belt and beginning to deftly unbuckle it. "Lie back. You know I'd never hurt you, don't you?"

"You just said you were going to _kill_ me!" America burst out.

"And which do you believe?" England toyed with America's button and trailed his fingers down over his zip and firmly pressed his palm against his crotch, listening to his breath hitch. "Which do you trust?"

America looked at him for a long moment, clearly deliberating even as he bit at his bottom lip against the feeling of England deliberately, nonchalantly, palming him to arousal through two layers. His hands fisted on the cracked concrete and his bound legs twitched under England's weight.

With his free hand, England reached towards him and once more took his glasses off, folding them and carefully tucking them into the pocket from which America himself had taken the cross.

"Can't you see that I'd never do anything to harm you?" he pressed, his voice gentle and full of lilting folk-song-promise. "Lie back, Alfred."

America hesitated a moment more; and then let his elbows buckle, sinking back to the floor with a heavy sigh. He was still clutching very tightly at the wooden cross, his gaze fixated on the ceiling even though he couldn't see it very well anymore, the damage disguised by the dark and his own short-sightedness.

_Don't act naïve? Forgive me – I know you can't help it._

England merely nodded his approval, enjoying the tormented look on America's face as he tried to keep it straight even with his hips twitching like that. As usual, however, he didn't keep his mouth shut for long:

"This is pretty unromantic," he panted. "It's all been, you know, for ages. When was the last time we did it on a proper bed?"

"1911," England supplied absently. "Unless the beds in the dugout count."

"_Proper_ bed."

"1911."

"That's a long time."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

England finally left America's crotch alone, satisfied with the bulge he'd managed to make of it, and unbuttoned him. The zip followed and he dipped his fingertips beneath the open 'v' to unfasten the line of smaller buttons down the front of America's boxer shorts. He heard the boy's breath hitch again, this time more nervously, as he was put on display; felt him squirm uncomfortably beneath him as though he wanted to draw up his knees to hide himself.

"Alfred, Alfred," England chided, gently laying a hand against his cock, "don't be shy. It's nothing I haven't seen, after all." He wrapped his hand around it for a moment, watching the twist of America's expression with interest; observing the physical buck of his ribcage when he pressed his thumb into the head. America's breath was coming so short that he sounded terrified, although the flush in his face was a clear enough announcement that that wasn't the case. "There now," England went on sweetly, stroking his first two fingers up the underside of it, "you like that, don't you? I know what you like, Alfred, hmm?"

America nodded, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Of course I do," England said. He took his hand back and began to attend to his own clothing, kneeling up and blindly fumbling under his jacket with his belt, roughly pushing everything down his thighs.

America wasn't watching him, apparently too undone in anticipation to concentrate on anything and so merely keeping his eyes shut. No matter. England put a hand flat on America's chest to steady himself as he pushed forward into a better position, using his free one to take the boy back in hand again and guide him in, sinking downwards with an uncommon confidence – he had never done this with America before and hoped the brat wouldn't panic.

America gasped and his eyes flew open, lifting his head to stare at England in bewilderment as they met fully; England merely huffed at him and straightened his green uniform tie, his shoulders stiff from how uncomfortable it was. Of course America had grown since that evening over the battlefield but he felt a _lot_ bigger, unpleasantly so, and England hadn't prepared himself and was unused to having someone inside _him_ due to his general staying-away-from-France – in retrospect, this was beginning to look like a bad idea, actually, but he'd feel like a fool if he retreated now and sucked in a breath or two to help himself adjust to the stretch.

America grinned then; weakly but obnoxiously.

"Is my prick too big for you, Arthur?" he teased.

"Hardly," England replied icily. "It's just that I am not as used to being bent over tables as you are, boy."

America shrugged good-naturedly.

"They're your tables," he said mildly. "Still..." He propped himself up again to look at the joining of their bodies. "This surprises me."

"How does it feel?"

"Um..." America hissed as he felt England rock forwards a little. "G-good, I guess... a little overwhelming..."

"Yes, I expect it does." England kneaded at America's chest like a cat, nails dragging over the weave of his waistcoat. "Put your hands on my waist to hold me steady, won't you? I shouldn't have to do all the work."

"O-of course." America lay back a third time and raised his arms enough to place his hands on England's belt. "Is that better?"

"It'll do." England pushed himself up and down a few times, making America gasp, but the rhythm was difficult and not very smooth; America was completely rigid beneath him, not moving a muscle, simply clinging grim-death to his waist and looking up at him in what appeared to be bewilderment. "If you lifted your hips to meet me, it would feel better," he said coldly.

"I can't with my legs still tied up," America retorted.

England rolled his eyes at him but loosened the wires still wrapped constrictively about America's legs, allowing him to move them. The boy opened them and bent his knees, his feet resting flat on the floor, and the whole movement sort of pitched England forward, making him brace himself against America's chest.

"That feels so much better," America concurred with a sigh; he let one hand, the one still holding the cross, drop back to the concrete, rolling his hips now to meet with each of England's motions.

England took hold of the lapels of America's waistcoat and clung to him like an anchor; America was so strong that each of his rocks upwards physically lifted England, almost making him lose his balance. He glared down at America in annoyance, noting that he had closed his eyes again and really seemed to be enjoying it now.

"Can you feel it now?" he challenged, tugging hard at America's silk lapels. "Can you feel my strength? Or can you just feel the damage? This has to feel different! Different from that time over the battlefield – against the birch tree, remember? Surely I don't feel as I did then."

"No," America sighed. "You were stronger then. I wasn't even able to hold you still. I couldn't feel anything."

"And _this_?" England gave an icy laugh. "Is this better? Does this ruined body pleasure you better now, Alfred?"

"Mm. This is nicer – gentler."

"_Weaker_, you stupid fool."

"That's—"

"It is true, it _is_." England stopped moving, tilting his head up to look at the collapsed, slanted-in ceiling of the ruined house. "A tomb, you ask? Yes, I suppose... Do I feel like a tomb to you, Alfred?"

"I..." America opened his eyes again. "N-no—"

"Because that's how _I_ feel. How much longer can I survive on borrowed money and borrowed weapons and borrowed time? I'm not stupid – I know the old glory days are coming to end, I know empires can exist no longer when this is all over. It's old-fashioned and it's hypocritical."

"Arthur—"

"Exhume me from beneath the rubble of London when it's over. All you'll find is the remains of bones that crumbled to dust decades before."

"Are you listening to yourself?" America grabbed hold of his belt and shook him a bit.

"Of course I am." England looked down at him again – he lifted himself and felt America's hips rise with him, arching to meet him. "You've made your decision, haven't you? Then this is all I can do – accept my ruin with open arms."

"I haven't— Now _wait_ a minute, I haven't... haven't made any _decision_—"

"You are neutral." England sank rather heavily back onto him again. "Is that, or is it not, correct?"

"It's..." America brought the hand holding his cross up to his hair to grip at it in frustration. "Arthur, it's not... it's just not that black-and-white, I mean, sure, I'm hardly a belligerent, but—"

"Oh, Alfred, Alfred, I'm not accusing you of condemning me to death," England cut in wearily. "Keep your knickers on."

"Kind of difficult since _you're on my_—"

"It's a figure of speech – just like asking you to choose."

America froze, the chain of his necklace brushing his cheek.

"You remember that?" England asked softly, smirking. "Baby, you must choose. Blue or red. Your side or mine. Choose now. If you must condemn me to save your own skin then do it."

"It's not about saving my own skin!" America snapped. "How many men have you lost already, Arthur? How many more of mine will you take?" He laughed bitterly. "They called it No Man's Land but it wasn't true. It was Every Man's Land because every man died there or knew someone who did. Will you turn all of Europe into another Hell like that – will you decorate it with _my_ blood as well as your own? Exhume _that_ and see how many skeletons of forgotten men you find – American, British, French, German." He looked away, refusing to meet England's gaze any longer. "I will give you money – I will not give you men."

England blinked at him, then laughed.

"It's not funny!" America spat, still fiercely looking aside.

"I know it's not." England reached back and patted America's thighs reassuringly. "Come on, let's at least not let all this effort go to waste. Close your eyes and relax."

America bit at his bottom lip for a moment, then gave a deep, huffy sigh and nodded. He settled back, fingertips rubbing over the decorative notches of his cross, and closed his eyes as he felt England take his other hand, the one that previously been resting at England's own waist to hold him steady. He felt England incline towards him and then the gentle press of lips against his knuckles – the gentleman's role, somewhat sarcastic, perhaps, but a nice touch nonetheless. When he let go of his hand again, America dropped it only to England's thigh, letting it rest on the curve of it, feeling the coarse, thick material of his bunched uniform trousers.

Neither of them said anything else. There was finally some sort of passable rhythm, even if it was still a little uncomfortable, and they moved with the preciseness, the predictability, of machinery, the same motion over and over again, rising and falling at the same moment as though it was an extension of their breathing captured exactly in time. America arched his back and lifted his hips, pushing up into every thrust, almost afraid to let England move too far from him; he was light, physically fragile, and it was no effort, no exertion, for America to raise him with each of his plunges upwards. Not weakness, not ruin, but... _something_. England was so small and yet it had taken him so long to notice. He had needed to grow out of his arms in order to realise that England couldn't protect him forever.

He twisted and grabbed at England's trousers; he could feel the older man tightening all around him, his inner walls clinging to him in a way that they hadn't before, either this time or that other awful time in the red light of the dusk, and he made a strangled, restrained squeaking sound at how amazing it felt.

How sickening. America couldn't help but smirk to himself as he fancied he felt the ground trembling underneath him – _that_ was a cliché, wasn't it? It was so wonderful that there were fireworks and the earth moved—

Wait. He felt something – a little chunk of rock – hit him on the forehead and his eyes snapped open. England was shooting him a sickly smile, lazy, his jade eyes half-lidded. The ground _was_ moving – everything was, tremoring under England's hold on it. One of the walls suddenly slid inwards another metre or so, kicking up a cloud of dust and raining down a shower of plaster on them both.

"Stop!" America yelled at him; he grabbed desperately at England, anywhere he could, trying to break his concentration. "You're going to bury us! _Arthur_!"

"Won't it be a fitting tomb?" England sang.

"No, no it won't—" America tried to shove England off. "Get _off_ me, you lunatic!"

The ground stopped shaking; but in the same instant England held up his hands. His fingers were threaded with copper wires, wrapped in and out and between like an intricate weave. He pulled his hands back and America realised – much too late – that they were the same wires as the ones wrapped around his neck, as they suddenly pulled taut and too tight about his throat and began to strangle him far more easily than England's bare hands.

He couldn't even speak, the cords too restricting to allow him to make even the most undignified squeak; instead he thrashed underneath England, wrestling with the wires and trying to pry them away from his neck. He kicked and bucked but, despite how light England was, America couldn't manage to throw him off. His vision was beginning to black out as he dimly watched England pull the wires tighter and tighter still, putting all of his strength into it.

Vainly, desperately, America threw out one of his hands, feeling blindly around for something, anything, to use a weapon, to get England off or cut the wires—

His fingers met with the metal spike and closed around it. He wrenched it out of the crack England had staked it into and thrust it upwards in the same motion, aiming blindly, just hoping it _hit_ him—

The wires loosened and America fell back, gasping for breath; still grasping the spine, his knuckles white around it. He panted for a long moment, greedily drawing air into his lungs, and then dared to open his eyes.

England was looking down at him, his arms limp at his sides again. He didn't look like he was in a lot of pain but he was observing America with some level of bored interest.

The spike had impaled him just under his heart.

"Is that it?" he asked eventually. He shrugged and began to raise his arms again. "Well, if that's all you have in you—"

America shifted his grip on the spike, angled it upwards and _shoved_. England froze up, wide-eyed, and then seemed to go quite limp as America kept pushing and pushing, sitting up even as the metal spine went right through England's body and came out of his back. With him completely unyielding, America shoved at him and reversed their positions, England hitting the floor on his back like a rag doll. Still inside him, England's knees somewhere at his hips, America leaned over him and tightened both hands around the metal spine, giving it a final thrust and pinning England to the floor of his tomb with it – like he was staking a flag into the surface of an uncharted land.

The wires were still around his neck, loose and clinking like strings of pearls, as he dipped his head, hands still on the spine and cross still clutched in his palm, and got his breath back.

"No, you're not going to let me," England said quietly, smiling at him. "I'm glad, Alfred."

"Shut up." America looked at the blade of pure steel impaling England through the heart. "Even this doesn't kill you, monster."

"Of course not." Blood began to pool at the corner of England's mouth. "But it hurts."

America said nothing – but his shoulders began to shake.

"Tell me," England mused gently, ignoring the boy's sobs, "is this what you dreamed?"

* * *

"_You dreamt of me, Alfred?" _

_Not prepared to let the child settle with words like that on his lips, England reached down under the covers and took hold of him under his arms, pulling him up to his level. America protested sleepily, kicking a little bit, but soon got comfortable again on England's chest, one small hand clinging to his heavy cross._

"_Alfred." England shook him. "Your dream. Why is it that you speak so easily of your nightmarish monsters and myself in the same sentence?"_

"_Because it was a nightmare," America informed him, not opening his eyes. _

"_Pray tell me." _

"_We were in the woods. It was snowing and it was just you and I. You showed me where acorns had fallen around an oak tree and had begun to sprout. You said that they were too close to the original tree and would probably die – their roots would be strangled by the big tree. I said in reply that it would have been better for the seeds to go far away from the big tree in order for them to grow and survive."_

"_And then?" England wrapped his arms around America, who snuggled contentedly into his embrace._

"_You murdered me."_

_England paused._

"_And how did I do that?" He shook America again, bringing him back from sinking beneath the surface of sleep."Alfred, just answer me this last question. By what method did I kill you?"_

"_Hands about the throat, enough to choke the breath from my body and lay me upon the snow. And then..." America nudged the top of his head up underneath England's chin, making a pillow of the dip in his collarbone. "...The strangeness of dreams is to blame, but you took from nowhere your flag and impaled me with it, spearing me to my own land. I was another pinned butterfly for your collection."_

_He smiled sleepily, perfectly delighted to have an excuse to crawl into England's bed._

"_But," he murmured happily, "it was but a dream."_

* * *

America lay on his back looking up at the ceiling, following the crack spreading from the light fixture until he couldn't see it anymore. It was an old sort of morning, early and dim even though it was May; old because nothing about it was artificial, neither the light nor the silence. They were in another run-down hotel room with walls which had once been white and a plain, ugly lampshade and thin flowery sheets on a shaky metal bed frame. The curtains were still half-open and America looked over the top of England's head at the window, picking out the blurred, grey shapes of London's half-decimated architecture. Admittedly it was difficult to tell Big Ben from a lamppost without his glasses...

England was still sound asleep, his head on America's broad chest, content under the weight of the arm that America had casually thrown over him. America remembered sleeping like this many years ago now, when he was still a child, in this exact position but reversed, his cheek on England's chest as he drifted to sleep and swam to wakefulness. England had smelt like the sea then, cold salt and high winds; with traces beneath of misty fields and sweet incenses of lonely churches, the sharp bustle of London life, ink and wax and axle grease.

Now he smelt of gunpowder, of blood, of rust and rubble and ruin.

In Europe it was over. Italy, separated from Germany two years ago, had been cowering beneath the Allied shield ever since as they had pushed forward from all angles, dragging up France as they went even as their dead littered his lands once more, falling on his shores in June and tearing down Germany's flag from the Eiffel Tower in July. They pushed and men fell; France breathed and Canada helped though they forgot him and England watched as America and Russia crushed Germany between them.

America turned his head, pressing his cheek against the pillow, and looked at the opposite wall; the battered old dresser was against it, and leaning against _that_ were England's crutches. If he squinted, America could see them in half-decent detail. They didn't shock him anymore – England had been using them for years now. Perhaps his own land couldn't hurt him, perhaps his buildings fell and barely scraped him because Germany just couldn't break him no matter what he did, but America had seen this coming, had seen the war crippling England little by little as it dragged on. Money, machinery, men – they began to run out and England could stand on his own no longer.

He fought on with them, his resolve to see it through to the end never wavering once, but they began to leave him behind as the years advanced.

Even then, watching China hold England's right crutch for him as he signed the peace treaty with Germany, America had remembered when England was strong enough to pick him up, to carry him for miles, to cuddle him close. He remembered looking up at him at night and being made aware of his own weakness in the face of England's power. He remembered being at England's mercy more than once.

He remembered that England had never really saved him from anything – not even this.

He gently lifted England and slipped out from beneath him, tucking him back in, and got dressed. It was a new uniform, ready and waiting for him in London when they had gotten back from Europe, although he had refused to part with the bomber jacket even though England had mocked him for falling for the fad of personalising it with paint and ten minutes' spare time. He was just pulling it on, his back to the bed, when he heard England address him:

"Are you sneaking out, Alfred?"

"I have still have men out there." America tugged his fur collar straight. "Okinawa. Iwo Jima."

"Ivan and I—"

"Yes, I know." America sighed and turned to him. "I know it's not just me – it's not just my war. But _you_ know I can't stay here with you any longer. You and Francis have all this mess here in Europe to deal with and I don't know if Yao can hold up much longer on his own and—"

"I am aware that the Pacific Theatre is still open for business." England had propped himself up against the headboard, toying with the cuff of the too-big shirt of America's he was wearing. "That damned Kiku – he always was stubborn..."

"I used to be friends with him."

"So did I." England shrugged at him. "Well, easy come, easy go. I was friends with Germany just fifty years ago, too – and who'd have thought that I'd end up allied with _France_?" He shuddered. "_Twice_."

_Or that you'd end up like this._ America didn't voice that last part aloud but looked at England for a long moment; those jade eyes met his, suddenly dark and thoughtful.

"Going East at last, then," the older man mused. "As far East as you can go."

"Yes." America gave an uneasy shrug of his own. "What protection does West give anyway? You came West to me when you wanted to escape Europe and it's still been your undoing."

"Ah, yes; is East ruin?" England smirked dryly. "I am East of you, after all – and Japan is East of us all."

America merely gave a sigh and offered no answer to that. England was so oddly... _gentle_ now, if that was the right word for it. It was almost as though he was relieved that America had stood up to him – as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders the moment America had thrust him through the heart and given him a grave.

An America strong enough to try and kill him in return wasn't boring.

"Would you do something for me?" America asked at length. "Before I go, I mean."

"Of course." England held out his hand. "If you would be so kind as to bring me those."

He was motioning to his crutches; but America shook his head and came back to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.

"No, it's okay, you don't have to get up," he said. He went into the pocket of his flight jacket and brought out his cross on its old tarnished chain, holding it out. "Could... um, could you... put this back on me?"

England blinked at him, silent for a moment, clearly taken aback; then he smiled, a real, rare, genuine smile, and took the necklace, stretching out the full circumference of the chain and beginning to reach up to slip it back over America's head.

"No." America ducked away, shaking his head. "I want you to clasp it... like you did when you first put it on me."

England simply nodded at that, not questioning the peculiarity of the request – well, England was somewhat eccentric himself at times, it couldn't be argued – and lowered the chain again to open the clasp on his lap. It was stiff, having never been opened or worked since that time he had first put it on America almost two hundred years ago, and it took him a moment and rather more exertion than should have been required to get it undone. He held it open, an end in each hand, and America leaned towards him for him to slip it around his neck.

"There." England gave it a tug to make sure that it was properly hooked; remaining with his arms draped around America's neck when he was satisfied. "Nothing can hurt you now, Alfred." He pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead.

America ducked his head and laughed.

"Liar," he said, and he smiled.

* * *

America ran ahead, his footprints in the snow like an uneven braid, weaving this way and that as he jumped roots and twirled about every now and then to make sure England was still behind him. His heavy cloak was tied firmly around his shoulders, keeping out the crisp winter chill, although his hood had come down, silver snow glittering on his gold hair.

Evening was sinking low as they made their way back through the woods – the trees were tall and naked and starkly black, standing like soldiers with stoic duty and bitter bark. America had had his hand in his for part of the walk but some time ago he'd broken free and gone scampering off after a rabbit – which was tame enough to regard him without much fear but still too shy to let him touch it, waiting for him to crouch and outstretch his arm towards its ears before it bounded away another few feet. At every failed attempt the child merely laughed and went tripping after it once more.

England's hand suddenly felt empty for the absence of America's and he reached into his pocket to find something to instead occupy it with. He emerged with the blunt beginnings of a wooden cross and stopped, resting his hand against the body of a birch, as he looked down at it cradled in his palm instead. The shape was more or less complete – he intended to decorate it with further intricacies, cutting into the wood beneath for its beauty to be better beheld.

Birch. He'd found it here, out in these woods, just he and America and no-one else to make up a world of silent forest, America's land as it died in the winter and yet was no less breathtaking for that cruel early death. Europe choked and shrivelled under December's touch but America's earth dressed itself with care, a splendid lady with pearls in her hair and diamonds at her throat and opals sewn into her moon-white gown, the perfect mother to a perfect child (even if he had hair like the sun and eyes like rivers unfrozen).

England did not belong here. He existed in the New World with the ill presence of a ghost, festered on the skin of America's land like a wound that spread without respite or healing; America didn't see the danger in him because he didn't understand anything other than what England taught him. For years he would never know that England had no power over this land.

No. England closed his hand around the cross and sank down against the birch. London rose to meet him but Massachusetts shrank back as though it feared that the stench of Europe on him, the stink of mud and war and dead men, would taint it. He had no hold over anything here – nothing except America himself. Beautiful land, though; so many places in these woods alone would make pretty graves, deep and undisturbed for America to sleep where monsters couldn't get him.

Birch wasn't a difficult wood to work with – but how this birch hated his English knife.

"Are you singing?"

England opened his eyes. America was leaning over him curiously – the rabbit was captive in his arms.

"No, no, I was..." England gave a shake of his head and stuffed the unfinished gift back into his pocket without America seeing. "Praying, Alfred. The Pater Noster."

He hadn't realised that his lips were moving.

"Oh." America nodded. "Our Father."

"Yes." England stood. "Well, let the rabbit go. You cannot take him home – he lives here in the forest."

America pouted a bit but bent to put the creature down; it skirted timidly past England and was gone, darting behind a tree.

"He must not have liked you," America said forlornly, looking after it. "Perhaps you smell like a wolf, Arthur."

"A strange thing," England agreed absently. "They used to come right into my arms."

America fell asleep in England's grasp as he carried him home; England held him carefully, gingerly, suddenly not sure what to do with him. He was overwhelmed with the want to kill him, bury him deep so that he could never regret turning him into something he had never had any control over to begin with; the want to make love to him, to abuse him with touches and words he was much too young to understand; the want to put him to bed and safely tuck him in, kiss him on the forehead after the prayer to keep away the monsters, hear him whisper "Goodnight, Daddy" around a sleepy smile.

Oh, he had no idea what to do with promise such as this other than ruin it.

The only gift he could give made his fingers bleed; but he would finish the cross tonight.

Then America would be safe.

[America held his cross in both hands as the first bomb fell. He did not so much pray as he pleaded.

"Deliver us from evil."]

* * *

So. Um. Yeah. Congratulations! You reached the end of this almost-30,000-word-monstrosity! XD

That Blitz part got so long, idevenk why...

I don't like to harp on with the assumption that you have read any of my other _Hetalia_ fics because it is, of course, likely that you haven't, but... _if_ you have, you may have noticed at this point that I have a massive fixation with America's glasses. XP Ah, I can't help it – I'm an American Studies student and the fact that he wears glasses – presumably because he's short-sighted, since he wears them all the time – is just like... too freaking perfect. Really it is. I _love_ that he is short-sighted. I think it comes from a conversation I had with Narroch many years ago now, when we first became friends and realised we were from different countries, but I mean ideologically it's just... be still my heart. It's probably just me reading too much into stuff again, though – Himaruya Hidekaz was probably just like "Yeah, this guy would look good with some glasses on him"... (but let me have my fun).

As an aside, I wear glasses myself so I know what a pain in the arse they are – they get dusty and dirty and scratched all the time and if it starts raining you're buggered because once they're wet you can't see and if you take them off because you can't see you _still_ can't see because you're not wearing them anymore. Still, it _is_ nice that someone invented them so the massive percentage of us that need them don't have to stumble around blindly our whole lives...

Speaking of America, a little of his literary heritage: There were no direct or explicit references to his poetry in here, but this whole piece kind of had a bit of a Robert Frost undertone, particularly the poems 'Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening' and, of course, 'Birches'.

And England's literary heritage: "Sceptered isle" – A reference to Shakespeare's _Richard II_; the quote continues "This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England".

Um, so, I think that's that. Thanks for wasting like three hours of your life reading it; and I hope you enjoyed it!

Wow, I really need to write something happy one day...

(I can't help it – I'm European!)

RR

xXx

('Spiritu Sancti' – 'Holy Spirit/Ghost'. "Deliver us from evil" is the final line of the shortened version of the Our Father/Lord's Prayer/Pater Noster.)

(Suddenly totally want to listen to E Nomine's 'Vater Unser', lawl.)


End file.
